


Letting The Days Go By

by roxymissrose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Dean, Bottom Dean, Episode Related, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Mention of Underage Sex, Minor Violence, OCs - Freeform, S2e20, Top Sam, Toppy!Dean, WIAWSNB, mention of alcoholism, minor character off-screen death(John Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 05:37:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 45,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4209957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roxymissrose/pseuds/roxymissrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Dean pushed Sam away and into a normal life, Dean's been spiraling downwards. He's screwing up on the job. He's never gotten over his dad's death. He's not sure he loves his girlfriend anymore. Sam hates his guts and with good reason, what kind of jerk sleeps with their little brother's prom date? He's backslid and fallen off the wagon, he's worrying his mom to death. The problem is he doesn't really remember living this miserable life….</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, a veritable saint of a woman, firesign10. Thanks also due to gingersnap1224 for being willing to audience weird and random bits of fic. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Thank you so much to writer786 for creating the art for this story!](http://writer786.livejournal.com/4343.html)
> 
>  
> 
> I'd like to thank Talking Heads for Letting the Days Go By. 
> 
> And of course, toldthestars, always and forever.
> 
> written for the [spn_j2_bigbang 2015](http://spn-j2-bigbang.livejournal.com/)

 

 **Dean and Carmen**

He woke up with his cheek pressed against something hard, nose tingling faintly with the stink of some bleachy cleaner. There was a stuttering sense of familiarity about this—he didn't think that was necessarily a good thing. It hurt to open his eyes, his sticky eyelashes popped apart when he finally managed it. He felt like shit, greasy and sticky and nauseous. He licked over painfully dry lips but it didn't help much; his tongue felt like a doormat, and by the taste of it, something must have died in his mouth. 

He rolled onto his back, knees knocking against the…he rubbed his eyes fully open, blinked blurrily around…ah, a toilet, he was in a bathroom. He sat up carefully, a burning ache between his shoulder blades making him wince in pain. 

"Shit…what the hell…" His hands rose up to cover his eyes, pressing against his forehead to keep his brain from popping out. He sat, breathing carefully in and out, and tried not to whine like a little girl. He ached all over, felt like someone beat on him in his sleep. He slowly dropped his hands and chanced a look around. 

"Wow." He was in a bathroom, bright and clean, definitely not a public toilet. The little undersized towels hanging over the toilet confirmed it. His bathroom? Didn't feel like it, he wasn't one of those, whatyacall it, handtowel kind of guys. He was…he was….

There was an unsettling blankness where who he was should be, where his _name_ should be. 

A wave of white noise rose in that blankness, but sound at the edge of his hearing stalled what was definitely the beginning of a massive panic attack. He reached out desperately for an anchor, concentrated on that sound, held on until the noise became a voice. An unfamiliar (but nice) voice, calling something, calling—him. "Oh."

The second he heard it, he knew, it was his name.

"Dean. Dean, wake up." 

There was a girl hanging over him, pulling at his shirt and sniffling. He shoved her away and lumbered to his knees. "What…" His gut, his arms, his wrists, all ached like a bitch. But he knew who he was. Dean Winchester. 

_Dean_ He hung in that "I'm Dean Winchester" space for while…it was a damn good feeling, knowing himself, anchoring himself in the here and now. 

The girl he'd shoved was sitting, legs splayed wide on the floor, crying full out now. Shit, he hadn't meant to hit her that hard, sure hadn't meant to knock her down, damn it—just, for a moment, some kind of instinct had taken over—

He reached out and she quickly slid back out of reach. "Hey, no, damn—I'm so sorry, that was really crappy of me. Are you….you okay?" he asked, stuck there with his hands out, feeling useless, feeling like a dick. 

Slowly her sobs hitched away into silence. She crouched on the bathroom floor, her expression broadcasting confusion, pain…and sadness. Dean stared back at her and knew he was the biggest ass in the world. Whoever this chick was, he'd obviously caused her a world of hurt. He racked his brain, but kept coming up against that blankness. _Who the hell was she?_

"I'm going to call your brother," she muttered, pulling herself to her feet. "I just—I just can't deal with this anymore…"

"Sam?" Dean got up as well, went to help steady her before snatching his hands back and shoving both in his pockets. But…Sam. Yes. She knew him, she'd get him, and Sam would know what the hell was going on. "Yeah," he called after her, "do that."

If Sam was here too, wherever _here_ was, than it couldn't be all bad. Maybe…maybe this was just some kind of black-out. Drinking, man, he should know better. How many nights had he dragged Dad's drunk ass back to whatever joint they'd been squatting in at the time? Sam and him, they'd had to listen to the man apologize for something he didn’t even _remember_ doing too many fucking times.

Dean dragged an ice-cold hand down his face, blew out a shaky gust of air. Guess he had some idea of what Dad must have been feeling back then. 

Anyways, yeah. Get Sam. Good idea. Sam would have answers, because god knew he didn't have any—his brain was working at the speed of drugged snails. He shook hi head, trying to clear it and immediately regretted the fuck out of that—his head rang like a bell and his stomach threatened to empty. Dean closed his eyes. It took a few moments for everything to settle; when it did, he staggered out of the bathroom. He carefully made his way down a short, non-descript hallway and froze. 

He'd known he wasn't in a motel, but seeing it confirmed was…scary, actually. This was an honest-to-god apartment, complete with a couch and a TV and some chairs and lamps…and pictures on the wall.

He glanced over at a wall studded with a gallery of pictures, the kind of thing he'd see from time to time in civilian homes: cheap frames stuffed with amateur photography, family pics. Only this time, he knew the family. No, he knew who the people in those pictures _looked_ like, because it was fucking impossible. Dean leaned closer, almost nose-to-glass with the pictures. It couldn’t be but fuck, that douche in the frame really did look like him. Fucking high school picture—a graduation picture at that. His gut started looping again. It was him, with his hair covering his ears, almost to his shoulders and….Mom. And Dad, on either side of him, arms around his waist.

_What the motherfucking hell?_

There was another one. Dad and him, Dad standing with his arm over his shoulder and--grinning. Dean stared at the impossible sight of himself as a teenager, wearing some baseball cap—backwards, what the actual fuck—and that perched on goddamn long _blonde_ hair. In a fucking _ponytail._ Dean almost stabbed at his eyes. Like he'd ever fucking wear his hair that long, or fucking dye it, or have fucking graduated from high school. 

It got weirder. There were pictures of him and the girl he'd woken up to all over each other. And. And…he was about one hot second from puking or passing out. 

Mom. Mom and this girl and him at some…picnic, barbeque thing. _Mom._ "Mom…."

There were some of Sam, too. But Sam like he'd never seen him before. Sam about three, sitting between Mom and him, chubby little Sam in some kind of Halloween costume. Sam in a grade school basketball uniform. And high school, looked like—soccer. Graduation pictures, two of them, one high school, one college. Had to be, the Sam in that picture was older, looked the way he did when he'd taken off for…Dean stared at the picture. Right. Stanford. 

Sam in someone's backyard it looked like, a grudging, sort-of-smile on his face, giant hand wrapped around a beer and standing between this girl and…Jess. Holy fucking Jesus Christ, _Jessica._

 

"What the hell is going on…?" Dean leaned against the wall, his head swimming unpleasantly with the brightening memory of Sam graduating—remembering now how hot the day had been, how his shirt had glued itself to his back and his shoes had hurt because they were brand new. He remembered feeling strangled by the tie he wore for—for Sam's graduation. Not trying to look good for him, just…it was the thing to do. At least, that's what Mom had hinted at. Sam had scowled when he'd seen him. Dean remembered mocking him, but that disgusted look on Sam's face, it had hurt—he'd not had a single drink that day. But that night, he'd—

 _It didn't happen that way, it couldn't have, Sam never got a chance to graduate college. He never…did he?_

Dean's knees went to Jell-O. He hit the wall and slid-dropped to the floor, gawping up at his _parents._ Were they both alive? No, that was stupid, how could they be? Dean sunk his fingers into his hair, disconcertingly longer than normal—though not that floppy Sam-mop of hair he had in the pictures. He pulled, _hard._

It didn't do a damn thing to wake him up. He was still in the girl's place, still ass on the floor, still going crazy.

What was happening to him?

 

"Dean, Sam's coming. Just be…okay. All right? And please don't—try not to bite his head off, okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes towards her. She was standing there; her arms held out like she wanted to touch him, but was uncertain about it. Another flush of guilt hit him. Shit. He'd put that frightened look on her face…did he…was he that kind of guy? Please, god, no. He stared at her but got nothing besides she was gorgeous, long, dark hair and tanned skin; she had the look of a model, lean and sexy, and really, she was more than a bit out of his league. 

Fuck, he _really_ fucking needed to know what was going on here...

They both jumped when the door rattled and jumped in its frame. Someone was pounding on it, hard and sharp; it dredged up a ghost of a smile. Dean knew that impatient knock, all right. The chick gave him a weird look before going to let Sam in. Dean heard a rushed, quiet conversation and then there, he was. 

"Sammy?"

Sam was wearing a pair of flannel sleep pants, the bottoms barely meeting the tops of a pair of ragged tims that Dean didn't recognize, another bit of fuckin' weird to toss on a growing pile of weird…Sam never wore Timberlands. He had some douchy Puma track jacket zipped up to the chin. He'd gotten a haircut since last Dean had seen him but that was…wasn't it just last night? 

Sam stared down at him, silent. No bitching, no bitchface, no grin, no frown. He might as well have been staring at a stranger. 

Hand on the wall, Dean dragged himself upwards, wincing when Sam jumped—away from him. The hell? 

"Sam—Sam, what's goin' on? I mean, what is this?" He waved at the wall. "Mom and Dad and what the fuck, dude, I don't…is this some kinda vision thing?" He dropped his eyes and stared at his spread hands. " 'm I trippin'?"

And at that, Sam's blank look finally cracked. Dean wasn't sure that was an improvement, his brother looked about a hot minute away from spitting on him. He sneered and said, "Shut up, Dean. Carmen. Do you want me to take him to my mom's place?"

The girl—Carmen, Dean corrected himself—Carmen, who was his. His girlfriend? Dean gasped, squeezed his eyes shut. Pain rocked him, sharp drilling pain right between the eyes as the world suddenly doubled. He knew he didn't have a Carmen, didn't have a girl, period. He had a Cassie once, a long time ago…little slivers of memory overlapped, tangling in each other, blocking each other…but, yeah, sure. _Sure he's got a girlfriend. Of course he does. And she…she…._

She was right there, peering cautiously at him around Sam's bulk. Dean gawped at _Carmen,_ his smoking' hot girlfriend. The nurse. Yeah, fuck yeah. _his girl._ Smiled at her, warmth filling him from toes to head because he got it now. This was his girl. 

Carmen gave him a shaky, tremulous smile back. Dean's grin faltered at the tears in her eyes, the warm glow faded. God. He was just about swept under with a strangling sense of guilt, hot with shame because he knew her, but then again…he didn't know her.

"No, it's okay, Sam," Carmen sighed finally. "I…no. If you can just get him to bed."

Sam's eyes went wide, he turned a bright red and the expression he leveled at him…fuck, Dean got the feeling if Sam thought he could get away with it, he'd gut him. Dean had to admit that at that moment, he was a little bit afraid of Sam, until pain drove everything else out of his head—the bitch had gone for his aching wrist and yanked him away from the wall. 

"Come on, damn it," Sam snarled when Carmen turned away. "Get going, you lying sack of crap," he growled, low, so only Dean could hear.

The urge to cry was overwhelming, and he wasn't embarrassed by that either—man had his limits, damn it. He was dizzy and, and nauseous from the fucking emotional seesaw, and then he had Sam yanking him across the room like he was a sack of potatoes….

He was achy and confused and totally lost. And—and alone. Sam wasn't doing a damn thing to help—he being a right asshole. Dean swayed and swallowed down an uncomfortable roiling in his gut. 

The hell. He was…he _was_ drunk. All of a sudden, he was really fucking, about-to-barf, drunk. "S'mmy, gah thrup.'

Of course Sam understood him; Sam could always interpret Dean-speak. "No, you're not."

Dean gasped—just like that, the rip-tide of sick ebbed—not that Sam cared. He just shoved Dean down the hallway, his hand fisted between Dean's shoulder blades. A shove down the hall, a shove to the right, a shove into the bathroom. 

Dean hung over the toilet, but more to get Sam off his back than to hurl—weirdly enough, he felt fine again. Tired as fuck, but not about to vomit. Sam waited a few beats before pulling Dean away and—again with the shoving—Dean almost tripped into an open doorway. He found himself in a dark, good-smelling room. His…bedroom. Right, right. Their bedroom, his and Carmen's. Hunh. He peered around in the near dark. Couldn't really make out anything. Sam shoved him-- _again,_ the bastard. 

Dean staggered right into the bed. His shoes were yanked off; he was twisted roughly to his side. "So you don't fuckin' Jimi Hendrix yourself," Sam muttered. "God, how are we related?"

He pulled away, but Dean reached out and snatched up his wrist. "Don't go, Sammy, please…"

"What?" Sam sounded some combination of annoyed and shocked. "Did you just ask me to…to _stay?"_ He shook his head. "Man, you really must be tripping." 

Sam pulled his wrist free and Dean dropped his hand to the bed, and damn it, this nightmare he was slogging through was making him a pussy because he actually did begin to cry. A tear or two, more maybe, squeezed out to dampen the pillow under his cheek. He moaned as the world tilted wildly, but at least it was kind enough to slide him down into thick, warm, darkness. 

Something soft brushed his forehead, there was a ghost feeling of a hand cupping his cheek, wishful thinking, because him and Sam only touched each other like that if they were absolutely frickin' blotto _and_ on the brink of death and no matter what he wished, or wanted, that was the way it had always been….

=+=

"Dean?"

Dean blinked, a dream full of death and blood and screaming fading away as he came to. "Hey, ah, Carmen, hey."

She looked in bad shape—pale, dark circles under her eyes pointing up how red they were. She was wedged against the headboard, arms wrapped around her knees like she was trying to lock herself in, or lock Dean out. She probably hadn't slept a wink last night, and Dean went ahead and added that to his guilt list.

When she spoke, her voice was flat, resigned. "Dean. You have to…" she trailed off, but took a deep breath and went on. "You've got to do something about this. This drinking…no matter what you think, you don't have a handle on it, Dean. It's a _problem._ And one you can't face alone."

Dean wiped his face, and kind of mentally poked around inside his head. He didn't _feel_ like a drunk. He definitely felt like he had a hangover this morning, felt like he'd been on one hell of a bender, but…

"Earlier this evening, before you, ah, you came in, Jim called and wanted to know where you were. Told him you were sick. Again. He said..." She laughed, not a trace of amusement in the sound. It was the kind of noise you made when you just didn't want to scream and rant and curse. "He said he was sorry, he knew how hard you were trying, but if you wanted to keep this job, you better be at work tomorrow, no question. Dean…you have to keep this job—please. I've carried us as far as I can, but I need to take a breath, you know? I just _can't_ anymore. I love you, but I just. Can't."

Shit—she folded like a broken doll and Dean's protective instinct came flaring out. He reached out, tentatively taking her in his arms, held tight when she collapsed against him. It was weird, the way it felt familiar to his body but not to his mind. He knew just how to tuck her in, just were to put his hand on her head. Knew to rock her just a bit, kiss her temple. "Hey, hey…" he searched for what to say, shrugged inwardly and did what he did best; let his mouth run without brain support. His body knew, hopefully his yap did too. And it did, he murmured all sorts of mumbo-jumbo she seemed to understand into her hair, rubbed her back until she sighed his name into his chest. 

"Look, Sweet, I'm not gonna lose this job, okay? I'm not gonna drink anymore, I'm gonna pull my weight—" at least until he caught up with Sam and figured out just what the hell was going on. At the moment, he felt…the feeling of wanting to die and take the little ghouls digging through his brain and eyes with him had faded. He was still a little achy, still a little queasy but otherwise fine. 

He was scared. None of this was normal. This…this…bouncing in and out of his life. Like he was himself but at the same time, some other, really fucked-up Dean. Was he dreaming—dream walking? 

Or maybe…he swallowed. What if he was stuck inside his own head, stuck in a dream while outside in the real world, he was sick? Or worse? He huffed. Could do worse if he was stuck in a coma. Shit, it was a nice place, apparently he had a hot as hell girlfriend, too. Who had a great set of tits, just observationally-speaking. Nice mouth too. He felt interest slither through him, stirring things up a bit. Tensed when she did, and let her go as fast as he could—his dick had the worst timing in the damn world. _Shit._

"Dean." She sounded—irritated, amused, sad, tired…"Let's just go to sleep, okay?"

=+=

Waking up in a bed you remembered, with a girl you remembered loving, was kind of like sliding sideways into a nightmare. He should be waking up in the bunker, by himself, with Sam safely down the hall in his room….

Bunker? What the hell was that? He rubbed his face hard, rubbed away the feeling that he should be—what?

Should be going after something. Or running away from something. He missed Sam. But the weirdo memories in his head were saying he hadn't seen Sam but a couple of times since he graduated college. Hell, since Sam and Jess moved back to Lawrence. Hadn't wanted to see Sam because…because of something that made him feel stupid and guilty and kinda sick. Which, while that tended to be more or less his default emotion when it came to his little brother, it just made him feel worse and miss Sam even more.

Dean flicked a glance at the clock quietly buzzing away on a bedside table. Half past seven…he mashed the snooze button and dropped flat on the bed again.

He had a half hour to get ready for work. He sighed, letting himself melt into the warmth at his side, shifted a little so that he could feel her pressed soft and inviting all along his side. Carmen, the lucky so-and-so, got to sleep in today. She was sleeping hard, too—not waking at all as he got up and shuffled around the bedroom on autopilot, getting ready. Those night shifts were kicking the poor kid's ass. When he got home tonight, he'd cook dinner for her, make her favorite—

He slammed up against one of those blank spots. Her favorite what? 

Shit. He missed Sam.

=+=

Dean filled a thermos with coffee, then took chicken parts out of the freezer, shoved them in the fridge to thaw, because halfway through his shower, he'd remembered that Carmen's fav was oven-fried chicken. It was such a stupidly easy thing to make. Sam had really liked it; it'd been a super-special treat when they were kids…but….

That wasn't right, was it, because _Mom_ always cooked for them. Dad had liked chicken that way, with mashed potatoes. He'd liked it so much that they used to have it every single Sunday, nothing special about that. He should check in on Mom, sometimes she got a little down thinking about Dad. They all missed him….

Dean came to, staggering to a stop in the driveway. He had no memory of leaving the house…what was he doing outside? It took him a few seconds to feel it—the fist rubbing at his chest. He swiped his sleeve over wet cheeks. He blinked again, forgetting that the last few minutes were a blank. He'd been thinking about Dad and…. 

Damn it. Why did it hit him like this, like the first time, every time he thought about Dad passing?

He headed slowly to the old car waiting for him in the driveway, his baby— the Impala he and Dad had spent a few summers rebuilding from the chassis up. He'd give the car a good going over this weekend, a wash and wax. Fuck, no wonder he was feeling this way—it was the anniversary of Dad's passing. No wonder Sam had looked like he hated him more than usual last night. Friggin' awful anniversary, and here he went and got stinkin' drunk. He shook his head. How could he have forgotten? Four fuckin' years without the man—longer since he'd had a decent conversation with Dad that didn't end up in rage and yelling accusations at each other—Dean shook his head hard, trying to drive out the ghosts of the past.

This memory thing was getting scary. Maybe he should get it checked out. Fuck, maybe it was nothing, maybe he was just getting old. Still, it was damn worrisome, this weird feeling of…of whatever it was.

=+=

It did _not_ get better, not in the next fifteen minutes anyway.

He was in the car, still parked in the driveway, quietly trying not to hyperventilate. He'd been sitting frozen behind the wheel, panicking about the job—or rather, the big blank spot where the job should be.

No idea where the place was, or what it was called. Had no fucking idea how to get there. He gulped, hands gripping the wheel like it was the only solid thing in the world, and thank god, she definitely was like a big old rock in a flashflood. Dean's forehead touched down on the rim of the wheel. 

_Oh god…_ Closed his eyes and just let the way Baby felt, the way she smelled, fill him. Hold him. His grip slowly eased as his breathing slowed to normal…without even really being aware of it, he'd started her. Eyes wide and his lower lip gripped tight in his teeth, with a prayer he'd never acknowledge repeating in his head, they'd drifted out of the driveway, towards the left, her wheels humming in tune with his silent pleas. Of course Baby knew the way. He thawed a bit, enough to even smile a little. Hell, he might not know anything else, but he knew her, and damn if she didn't know him.

Fifteen minutes, three turns to a major highway, one exit and a u-turn later, he was sitting in front of Jim Priestly's Motor Works, Classic Cars a Specialty. 

Sure, of course— it was sitting there right in the front of his brain, the job he'd had for a few months now. One last favor Jim had extended them in the memory of John Winchester, his good friend. Jim, the guy who'd actually cared enough to take a chance on a fucked up kid—man, really—who just couldn't seem to get out of his own way.

Dean parked her, walked around to the trunk and opened it. He swayed a moment. Where the fuck was his war bag? Where was all his goddamn _stuff—_ he rubbed at his eyes and blinked to clear sight suddenly gone foggy. 

His stuff was sitting right there. Lunch cooler, tool box, extra overalls and boots, some fishing rods shoved to the rear of a trunk so massive you could easily dump a couple of bodies in it…and that was a morbid thought, wasn't it? Where in the hell had that come from? Oh, he definitely needed more coffee.

=+=

He came in through the receptionist area, grabbed a set of keys labeled 'Dean. Hanson/Chevy'06 Silv.' off a hook on the wall. Kate was behind the desk, arguing with someone on the phone. She rolled her eyes, glared at him, then shrugged and jerked her chin towards the back. Great. Silent conversations meant that Jim was not happy. Didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what—who—had made Mr. Priestly an unhappy man.

He pushed through the thick metal door and the noise of the shop rolled over him. Music blared, a background to the tools in use and comments yelled back and forth between the mechanics. It was as familiar as home to him, grounding.

He strolled past some kid on his way to his bench—Ralph, right, his skinny, tall self bent over an engine, a look on his face like he was searching for the meaning of life. He reared back and swiped curly strands of too-long hair off his forehead. He tossed Dean a wave, flashing bright white teeth in cocoa-brown skin. Dean observed that Ralph was a seriously fine-looking man. If it wasn't for Carmen, he'd definitely put some…Dean stumbled a little, whacking himself in the knee with his toolbox. He hissed, in equal surprise at the sudden jolt to his knee and a newly revealed fact about himself.

 _Bi, hunh?_ Hunh. This Swiss cheese memory was seriously doing shit to him. He turned over the fact that apparently his playing field was wider than he'd thought, then shrugged and headed for his bench. Obviously, he'd had this revelation in the past and dealt—he gave his memory a couple of pokes—just fine with it.

 

Up to his elbows in the truck, he was relieved that he had no memory problems whatsoever. It was like swimming, or sex. This was so much a part of him; he didn't need to think about it. And then one of those weird, sideways notmemories hit him—Sam and him parked on the side of some forested road, Sam trying to act like he was interested in an impromptu lesson in car care. It should have been a good memory, but it was overlaid with sadness and a kind of…of despair. Dean set down the wrench and scrubbed his forearm over his head, trying to keep grease out of his hair. Shit. 

He missed Sam. It was a thought that breezed in and out again almost without notice, like a breath, like a blink.

He heard the shop door open and fall shut, and turned to check out who'd come in. He knew Jim the moment he saw him, how could he not? Average height, thin build, graying blonde hair, a sparse beard more gray than blonde, and the kindest eyes. Sure, Jim. One of Dad's closest friends. A real bible-believing kind of guy, but not a prick with it. Marine, had been in Dad's unit, along with…with…Dean got a vague impression of beard and ball cap and then Jim was on him. 

"We need to talk. In my office, Dean. I've, ah, got coffee. And donuts. "

"Yo, Pastor, how you gonna act with them donuts?" someone Dean knew was named Gus yelled out. 

"Like I paid for them and you didn't," Jim called back, but Dean knew later those donuts would be sitting out in the receptionist's area so the guys could get at them. 

Jim closed the shop door behind them. 

He shoved a pile of papers off the edge of an old metal desk, and propped a hip on it. He rubbed both bony hands over his angular face. "Darn it, Dean," he said. "I think a lot of you; I worry about you as if you were a son of mine. Your family means a lot to me—your dad, rest his soul, your mom. Your brother—and don’t start crabbing about that. If you'd just give each other a darn chance…."

Dean felt that swooping sense of horrified shame again. Jim held his hands out to Dean. "Son, this has got to stop. Like I said, I worry about you, but I've got a business to run. You have to tell me the truth. Are you using?" 

"Wha—no!" Dean scrambled through his memories, but all he could find were wavery, faint memories of getting high, dropping acid once or twice—he was a fucking hunter, though, so most of that was a long time ago, high school. And there was that one time he snorted coke—all he got out of that was a goddamn headache and a better appreciation for JB. Oh, and that gawdawful time he got fuckin' roofied, but Dad pulled his ass intact out of _that_ fucking mess—

Dean shook his head. _What the fuck? Nothing like that had ever happened to him—well, not in high school, anyway—and he'd never hunted a day in his life._

Jim was staring at him, spearing him with the same kind of sad, disappointed stare Carmen had. "You _are_ drinking, though."

Dean wanted to say no but the evidence had been all over the bathroom floor. "Okay, yeah, but Jim, that was some kind of, of, mistake—swear to god, I'm not going to fall in the bottle ever again, man. I promise you that." 

"Dean, I don't take a vow lightly. I can see you really want to change and…well. Things have been going okay. I thought...I don’t know what happened to you these last few days…" 

Dean gaped at the man. Carmen hadn't mentioned anything about him not showing up at work for days—

"But I'm beginning to think," Jim went on, "whatever it was, wherever you were, something big happened. You're…different." He came toward Dean, looking him up and down. He nodded slowly, thoughtfully and then, held his hand out to him. "I believe you, son, I do. I'm counting on you to keep heading in the direction your dad tried to point you in. Now go back out there. You got work to do."

Dean grinned. "Yes sir," he said, and snagged a coffee and a donut before heading back out to the shop.

=+=

He thought the day had gone pretty good—he'd actually liked being in the shop, working with guys who knew why he liked doing what he did—he liked it a hell of a lot better than working construction—"Damn it!" He dug a thumb between his eyebrows, pressing hard as he could. What the hell, he'd never worked construction—unless, he'd done it while he was bumming around the country, mostly fucked out of his mind. Shit. It would have been better than some of the things he did remember doing. Well, screw that shit—he'd worry about bogus memories and his bouncing brain later. Right now, he was letting Baby take him back home.

 

Carmen was there when he let himself into the apartment—she started guiltily when he dropped his cooler at the door. "Hey…you home already? Thought you were doing the night shift thing. You feelin' okay?"

"Yeah—yes. Hi." She turned away, pulling something out of the oven. "They let me go early—I stopped and picked up one of those pre-made pizzas from Antonia's. Didn't feel like cooking." 

Dean held up a couple of plastic bags. "I was going to cook—stopped at the market and everything." He gave her his biggest smile, trying to project 'I'm here and I'm trying to be a great boyfriend' but she just turned back to the oven.

"Sorry you had to make a trip you didn't need to."

Dean winced at the anger and the resignation in her tone. "Hey. I get you're mad as hell and you've got a right to be, and I'm sorry. I'm guessing I've been breaking promises—I mean, I _know_ I've been breaking promises. I don't know why, and I'm not really sure how it happened, but I'm so sorry and I'm going to make it up to you. Even though…" he slumped, set the bags down on their table. "I'm sure you must have heard that about a million times." Despite all the memory glitches he'd been having lately, Dean had no problem believing that he made promises he didn’t keep. 

Carmen breathed a sound that was pure exhaustion. "I guess I have. I guess we've both made promises we can't keep—done. Done things we're not proud of." 

She shuddered, when Dean took a step forward, she stiffened. "No. I can't keep doing this. You know, I watch you and your brother. I listen to what you say about him. What he…what he says. There's, there's this weird… _thing_ you two have. I think…you just can't really…connect outside your family, Dean. You hate each other, but you're still more involved with each other than with anyone else. You've never been that involved with me, your _fiancé,"_ she said, giving it a bitter twist, "the person you say you're in love with..."

She trailed off, eyes fixed on Dean like she was trying to puzzle him out, crack him open with her eyes. "…sometimes, I think you've already met the love of your life. Like you've already had something so much deeper than we could ever have, and you destroyed it." 

Carmen's voice rose as she went on, higher, harsher. "I feel like from the day I met you, I've been trying to pick up those pieces, Dean. Gluing and patching and trying to hold you together. We're just—ah!" She shouted, frustration in every line of her, the tone of her voice. "I feel like I'm your _caretaker_ instead of your lover, Dean, and I _can't_ be that anymore!"

"Carmen—"

"This was always going to crash and burn, Dean. You made sure of that!"

Dean took a step back, away from the blast-wave of Carmen's anger, away from the feeling that he was drowning in overlapping waves of reality. He'd been on the receiving end of this anger before, had a similar conversation before, but that person had been taller, darker, with a halo of wild, curly black hair and brown eyes snapping with fury and hurt. Because Cassie'd thought he was lying, trying to drive her away, when really he was trying to hold on to her with everything he had. Sam had left and taken almost everything with him and Cassie was his last chance…no, he meant _Carmen,_ she was his last chance at normal, and Sam, that heartless fuck, didn't enter into the damn picture at all.

"I don't…" His throat closed up, what he'd been about to say withered and died. This wasn't an argument, this wasn't her being annoyed at him or disappointed—this was Carmen breaking up with him. And worse, he didn't care. No, he cared; he just didn’t care for himself. He felt sorry for her, for what he'd done to her. He'd made her waste years on him, broken her heart over and over and for that he was sorry. But, as far as it went for him, he was just…there. 

She was leaving, and he could only think about how much he missed Sam and wished he were there instead.

Carmen slept in the bed alone that night, and Dean camped out on the couch. He didn't mind much, it was comfortable. Besides, there was a feeling about this worn piece of furniture, something good, safe. Right on the heels of that contented thought came a prickle of unease. He yawned, the feeling blew away like fluff, and he was left with a sense of comfort. This old couch, it might be ugly as hell, but it fit him like he'd worn his shape into it. Sure, because it was…it was Mom's old couch, yeah, and he'd begged it off of her when he and Carmen had moved back here to try and have a normal life…so much for that. 

The old couch held him all night long, all through dreamless sleep.

=+=

He woke in the morning feeling a little sad, but, in some way he couldn’t explain, more like himself. If Carmen had thought she was punishing him last night, well, the joke was on her because he'd slept like a baby.

He made coffee since he was the first one up, but nixed breakfast. He was pretty sure the last thing Carmen wanted was to sit down to breakfast with him and pretend one last time that everything was "A-okay."

He poured himself a cup, skipping sugar and milk, and wandered around the apartment, sipping thoughtfully. So. This was really it. This was over, done, and the quicker he got out, the better for both of them. He needed a fresh start, a real fresh start, and so did she. Dean had the feeling she'd recover from this pretty quickly, but then again, he wasn't exactly mourning either. It was just damn time. Making a conscious choice to leave was a huge step for him; he'd always just ran before. He was worried, but mostly, what he felt was relief. 

He sipped at his cooling coffee while he tried making tentative plans—the next step. Maybe a miracle would happen and Mom would let him back in the house, just until he had his shit figured out. The thought of begging his mom to let him back in made him feel embarrassed, and kinda loser-ish. Dean laughed to himself. Definitely loser-ish. Still, the thought of talking to his mom at all, of, of hugging her again—he couldn't wait. He really couldn't wait.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dean and Mary**  
"Hamburgers or hotdogs?" Mary asked herself. It was the perfect kind of day for grilling—bright, sunny; warm without being too warm. A day for grilling, for garden work…a good day for being outside, just breathing.

She rolled her sleeves up, absolutely intending to weed the cutting garden, but instead sat on the edge of the deck, patting her gloves against her knee, thinking. 

She could make hamburgers from scratch. Hamburgers would be nice. But so would fish. She had some nice salmon steaks in the freezer, and she could make a little salad on the side…it'd be a good excuse to drag the grill out, she thought. Maybe the boys would come. Miracles happened. 

Mary closed her eyes and tilted her head back to the sun, let it warm her face. A light, perfect breeze wafted sweet, spicy scents her way—she should cut some flowers for the table, do it up right tonight. What the heck, might as well set the table with china and crystal and all, while she was at it. It didn't matter if she ate alone or not, it'd be…nice. Relaxing. Some of the sunflowers were bloomed; she could take a stem or two, tuck some cosmos in there, a few fern fronds…zinnias, too, John's favorite. She twisted her wedding band, back and forth, back and forth. 

It was just so hard to believe that yesterday was four years since John had died. Four years, damn it….

Sam had called to check on her but Dean hadn't, of course, not that it surprised her. John's death was something Dean just seemed unable to process. Four years gone by and he was still struggling with it. 

She stood with a sigh—and winced when her knees crackled like popcorn in a microwave. "Okay, hamburgers it is. But first, we'll cut some flowers before we drag the grill out. What do you say, Bonesy? Sound good to you?"

The golden retriever mix followed her out to the garden, agreeable as ever. Why couldn't the kids be more like him?

Mary stepped over the edge of the bed and looked back towards the house. The deck drew her eye—so many damn good memories tied up in that, that pile of boards. John's last big project, not that they'd known then. Her gaze slid to the first of two wide steps that ran the length of the deck. She knew the boys' initials were carved on one of the boards, _John and Dean,_ and the year, _2000._ The weathered-looking Trex boards would never need to be painted or stained, built to last for years and years…

The guys had worked so hard on it, John and Dean. Worked their butts off, but they'd had fun too. Going at each other in that way that guys did that she just never understood—part compliments and part sarcastic rips. She shook her head. Those two were thick as thieves back then, before it all inexplicably imploded. 

She looked past the deck to the screened French doors, and remembered too, Sam standing behind them like they were made of iron bars instead of wire mesh. Glaring at his father and his brother, such a cold, hard look on that soft, sweet face. Mary twirled her ring, recalling how Sam had looked, cold but somehow…shattered at the same time. She'd tried in those years; god knows she tried time and again to get him to talk to her, but whatever it was that drove a wedge between teenage Sam and his family remained a mystery. 

Sam had gone on to college, found Jess, and it had gotten…better. More or less. At least, Sam had started speaking to John and her again. He'd never really been their sunny, loving Sammy again, not even when Dean had come rambling home at last with Carmen in tow and…she put the brakes to her run-away thoughts—she was not going there. Rehashing old feelings and hurts wasn't getting hamburgers on the table. 

In the garden, she snipped the stems she wanted, her thoughts circling doggedly around to unwanted territory again. 

Only once in those dark times had Sam's shell cracked. He'd been drunk as hell—going through a blessedly short period of time imitating his big brother—and he'd accused her of loving Dean more than him, that even as messed up and screwy as his big brother was, she still loved Dean better. 

"Why should I try harder, why should I go to school and study, and, and be some Winchester golden boy, _why?_ When Dean, he, he…" 

All she recalled after that was Sammy crying his heart out, clinging to her like his life depended on it. That boy had cried so hard, so hopelessly, that she'd been terrified for him. After, he never mentioned it again, but when she thought about that night she recalled also, she'd never told Sam in words that he was wrong. 

He was—so wrong. She loved _both_ so much, she just…loved them a little differently, because they were different people. Sam…he was almost a carbon copy of John. That same, deep, slow-burn temper that once ignited made it hard to let a grudge loose…but also that deep, deep capacity to love. The drive to want to help. To be a good person. 

Dean was a bit like her, quick to anger but just as quick to let it go. Quick to get hurt and boy, was he good at shoving that down where it didn't show. Whatever happened between him and Sammy, it had hurt Dean too much to let go. Hurt them both. Poor Dean. Poor Sam. And nothing she could do to help either of them.

Mary closed her eyes held a sun-colored zinnia to her cheek. "I wish you were here to help look after these boys, hon…I hope you're keeping an eye on them both."

=+=

Mary passed the bookcase on her way from the garden, kissed the tip of her finger and tapped her favorite picture of John. It was a little thing she did, almost any time she passed the photos—any time she was _alone._ Sam always made a face that said she was being unnecessarily maudlin, and Dean… _'Dean never really notices much of anything, anymore'_ she thought, and waved it away. Thinking about this mess was pointless right now. It was a nice day, damn it. Nothing and no one, including herself, was going to throw a sabot in the gears, not today.

She padded through the dining room archway into the kitchen and set the flower basket on the counter near the sink. She grabbed a vase from an upper cabinet to fill with water. It was a favorite of hers, green and blue swirled through the glass reminded her of the ocean, especially when it held water. She relaxed again as she spent a few quiet minutes arranging the stems until they felt right. She set the filled vase on the table, nudging her crossword aside.

"There we go," she muttered. The sun coming in through the window made the flowers glow and the green and blue glass shimmer. "Now that's nice."

She loved her cutting garden. So what if it was only a few square feet? She felt totally Martha Stewart-like when she was out there—minus the terrorized, unpaid, interns doing all the work for her. 

Mary chuckled to herself and went back to the sink. Bonesy jumped up to his feet, barking, but it was more a greeting than a warning. She froze, with her soapy hands under the spray, to stare out the window. 

Dean was coming up the back walkway. 

_Oh lord._ Carmen and he must have had a fight. Again. She thought briefly about locking the liquor cabinet, but the very idea made her feel petty and—and weird. This was her _son,_ her beautiful boy. Who, yes, could be sarcastic, mean-spirited and sometimes felt…not dangerous, not exactly…but something that danced around the edges of it. 

She twirled her ring as she watched her boy cut across the path, stomping over the groundcover to head towards the kitchen door. A shiver whisked down her spine, a twist of anger and grief, and _confusion._ She'd never understand why Dean had sliced himself out of their lives. He'd destroyed his relationship with Sam, which tanked his relationship with John …if she hadn't fought so hard to keep him, Mary thought, she would have lost him too. 

Bonesy barked a warning seconds later when the door shook under the force of rapid pounding. She jumped even though she knew it was Dean. A rapid, loud banging was usually a barometer of just how drunk he was. She wiped hair back from her face and sighed. _Game time._ She took a second to fix a bright smile on. 

"I'm coming, honey, I'm coming." She was mildly surprised that he wasn't yelling for her to hurry up. 

"Okay, honey, hi—" she'd barely opened the door when Dean took her into a tight, bone-squeezing hug. She felt his heart beating, heard his breath catch over and over and—oh god, was he _crying?_

"Mom," he muttered, again and again, his chin hooked over her shoulder, his hands curled in fists and pressed into the space between her shoulder blades. "Mom, oh god, _Mom—"_

His breath caught again, his voice cracked and…had her grown son really just called her mommy? 

"Baby…did you spend the night in the car again?"

Dean shivered—she could feel him go tense. She knew what she'd see before he let her go—his face gone cold and hard and brimming with anger and the self-loathing that always cut her like a knife, the depth of the hatred he had for himself. He stepped back and stared down into her eyes and she automatically reached out for him, took his hands to hold him there. 

"Sleep in the car? No, Mom, no, why would I?"

That was an unexpected reaction. There was anger there—no, not anger. Annoyance maybe, at himself? _At Sam, most likely…_ she took a breath. "Honey, Sam called and said you'd gotten drunk. Again." 

Dean hissed, but the way he looked surprised a little smile out of her—his nose was wrinkled, lips turned down—just the way he'd looked when he was a teen and Sam ratted him out over something stupid, just to wind his big brother up….

"Dean, I thought…I thought things were going so well. _You_ were doing so well, but Sam said you were in pretty bad shape last night."

"Yeah, I bet he did." Dean's voice was cold, that familiar bitter snap whenever he mentioned Sam, but then…then his eyes went soft, his tone so _sad._ Everything about him seemed to slump, he looked small and…lost. "Sam really doesn’t like me, does he, Mom? He really… _hates_ me."

He took a few more steps back, reluctantly pulling out of her hold. She looked up at him, really looked at him. He was different. His eyes were clear, bright, in a way they hadn't been for a long time. He smelled like soap and nothing else but Dean. He looked good, not like someone who'd had to be dragged out of a puddle of vomit the night before.

 

Her boy turned slowly, looking around the kitchen with wonder in his face and in his voice when he spoke. "This looks, wow, it looks—great, Mom. I like the flowers, y'know, all over the walls and stuff."

Mary tilted her head, swept aside hair that had fallen around her face with the movement. She smiled wryly and said, "Actually, we hate the flowers, Dean. We plastered this floral wallpaper…abomination over everything one crazy day in the nineties and you and your dad have been promising me forever to help me strip that stuff off. Oh—" She covered her mouth. _Damn it._ She'd done it again. Four damn years, and she'd done it again.

"Mom, don’t," Dean said, "I get it. I did the same thing this morning. It's…painful. I know. It's like…I don’t know, Mom, like everything happened for the first time today. Jesus." 

He looked so lost, that Mary reached out for his hands again. "It doesn’t help Dean, you getting drunk; it won't repair what went wrong between you and your dad. It won't make anything better. But I know you loved him. And he loved you. I wish you'd believe that."

"I did—do." Dean shook his head. "And I know. Mom, last night, I swear to god, that was the last time. I mean it." 

He looked around again like he'd never seen the house before. He walked over to the fireplace and poked around the collection of family pictures cluttering up the mantelpiece and the wall above it. Every time Sam passed it, his fingers twitched like he wanted to cull the herd, but Dean…Dean gazed at that mess as if he was looking at priceless art. He carefully picked up a picture of John from that memorable summer at the lake—the one where he was holding up that stupid overgrown fish, King Leviathan, or whatever the heck the boys had named it. She remembered how they'd carried on when they'd finally caught it, after years of fighting to hook that ugly thing. Boys.

Dean stared at the silly picture like he'd never seen it before. His face held such a look of incredible wonder and surprise and confusion. "Dad…I've always hoped he knew how much I loved him before he…you know, what took him." 

He peered up at her, uncertain, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. It was an odd way to put it, but considering…she nodded. Of course she understood the way Dean felt, she'd felt the same way when her own dad passed. "The stroke was sudden, hon, nobody knew. I'm sorry you boys weren't home. But we did try to find you, Dean. I hope you believe that we did."

Her son stared like he had no idea what she was talking about before suddenly wincing, grabbing at his head and digging his fists into his temples in a way that frightened her. "Oh shit—oh god, Mom. How can you _stand_ for me to be here? How can you bear me being in this house, talking to me—"

"Dean? Honey? Oh my god—are you okay?" He'd gone a dead white, his eyes large and scared, white showing all around the irises, like a terrified deer. She rushed to him when he staggered—she was pretty sure he was about to faceplant in the carpet. 

"Did I do all that? Did I really blame you for Dad's death? Say you tried to hide it from me—and act like…like…" He shook his head like he wanted to fling the memories a way. He went on, his voice cracking with emotion, "I _stole_ from you—from Dad? I can't believe I'd do that. That's not me. I'm not that kind of person." He looked devastated, and she had no idea how to make it better. "But I did, I remember that. But I remember growing up without you, too, being all by myself, so many times." He looked up at her. "Mom. I miss my brother." His face crumbled and her heart broke for her baby--again.

She gripped his arms—her hands were shaking, she tightened them on Dean's arms to hide it.…what in the world was going on with her son? "You're not alone, baby, you have me, and you have Carmen. You have…you have her."

He smiled sadly and shook his head. "She doesn't love me. She just…" he shrugged. "She hasn't really loved me for a while." he shrugged. "Not like _love_ love me. I can't blame her. Fuck, I can't believe she hung in this long. Sorry, 'scuse m'language, Mom. Last night was the last straw, I guess. She's gone."

Mary tried to shut her mouth and look less astonished. Dean's life had just blown up, again—and he was sober. Still sober. Soberer than he'd been since, since age twenty, she was willing to bet. "Oh, my boy, my poor, poor boy…I can't believe…" she wanted to say that she couldn't believe that Carmen left, when what she wanted to say was she couldn't believe that they'd limped along together as long as they had.

"Mom." He smiled crookedly. "Let's not pretend."

"Come sit down," she said, hoping Dean ignored the blush. She hadn't been a huge fan, but Carmen wasn't a bad person—never had been. And she'd done the best with what she had, she had loved Dean, there was never a doubt about that. 

"Let me get some food in you. When was the last time you ate?" Mary knew as much as Dean loved food, stress, bad times, made him forget to eat—he'd always had Sam or her checking on him—until Sam became one of the reasons.

Dean gave her a puzzled look. "Uh, breakfast this morning. I had pancakes and eggs and bacon—Saturday breakfast, y' know. I cooked. Ate it by myself, though." He blushed a little and grinned shyly. "And you know what? I'm still a little hungry. I, ah, have a bag of donuts in the car. Want some?" 

Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted back out to the driveway. She heard the car door opening, the familiar squeak of the impala's hinges. Dropped down on one of the chairs so hard, it squeaked. "Holy crap." _Holy…*shit.*_

Dean had food? He was eating—he was _hungry—_ he was smiling…..

It was as if time had reversed itself and her adorable, impossible-not-love teen Dean was back, with his big, kind heart and sweet ways. When all they'd had to worry about was him sneaking the occasional cigarette out of John's truck or him sneaking Sammy into R-rated movies….

=+=

Dean came trotting back with the donuts and a big grin. He made coffee, smiling at her the whole time, just totally wide-eyed and acting like he hadn't seen her in ages. She liked it, but it made her worry. And the start and stop conversations, the way Dean had to—to catch up. It was worrying. But he was definitely not drunk. He was no way as much a mess as Sam had hinted at.

Sam had been so wound up, he'd almost forbidden her to speak to her baby—he could be a pill, sometimes. When Sammy was on his high horse, she swore, she completely understood why things were strained with Jess, or with Dean and Sam—with Sam and the world, at times. He could be…overbearing, nothing at all like the darling little boy he'd been. Dean's shadow, Dean's best buddy. God. 

What the hell had happened to her children?

=+=

Dean ended up staying for dinner. He set up the grill after a few worrying minutes where he just couldn't remember where it was—and then suddenly he knew everything, where the tongs and stuff were and the coals and everything. She'd forgotten about it quickly enough, distracted by Dean whirling around her kitchen, totally in command and ordering her around, all tongue-in-cheek and flashing that wicked little grin she'd missed so much.

She loved it—it was _fun_ cooking with him. It surprised her, how well he knew his way around a kitchen, though she shouldn't have been, really. He was a grown man, after all. 

They made hamburgers—well, Dean did, and they were amazing—along with a quick, fake mac'n' cheese, and a salad which Dean didn't touch, no surprise there. She'd have to work on him about that…if he planned to show up a little more often again. 

Dean grilled; they ate, and then cleaned up together. He gave Bonesy a bath because Sam hadn't come by to check on his dog in a few weeks—in all fairness, Sam did miss the dog terribly, but Bonesy just didn't seem able to connect with Jess, though Jess tried her very best. It hurt Sam to give him up; the man loved his dog. Sometimes, Mary thought darkly, it seemed he loved the dog more than anything, more than some people. 

Dean had a lot of questions about Sam. During dinner and then clean-up, he asked how Sam was, what he was doing, did he like his job—Mary was surprised how much it hurt that Dean had no idea what his brother's life was like. But…she was also tentatively hopeful. This was the most interest Dean had showed in Sam in years. Positive interest, anyway. She knew all about that night that Dean had shown up out of the blue in Sam and Jess' California apartment—had broken in—that he and Sam had fought. Jess told her how Sam had thought Dean was a thief, said he'd reeked of alcohol. That he'd fought Sam, dragged Sam and himself to the floor, then wouldn't let Sam go. He just kept hanging on to Sam, crying, and in Jess' words, just being pathetically drunk and kind of disgusting.

She'd seemed really angry that all Sam had done was hold on and cry as well. 

Mary had put two and two together at hearing the story, figured out when it'd happened. The break-in had to have taken place not long before Dean had run off—the year Sam graduated Stanford. He'd left without a word to anyone, and didn't come back for over a year—when he'd reappeared with Carmen. She sighed quietly as she watched Dean fiddle with the plates, with the bubbles in the sink. Her sons.

He made them coffee again and sat, one knee non-stop bobbing. He was a nervous wreck—something was definitely on his mind, something he was sure was going to make her unhappy. Poor boy, his knee was jouncing so hard, the table was wobbling. She pinned his kneecap firmly and said, "Dean. What is it?"

He smiled uncertainly, blushed a red so violent it totally obscured his freckles. He shook his head, took a deep breath and let it out. "Mom, I have a huge favor to ask and I totally get if you're like 'hell no' about it because I know I don't deserve it, and it'll be a huge imposition and you're probably used to not having someone underfoot, and, y' know, with the cooking, and the laundry—not that I'd ever, ever ask you—I mean, I know how to do all that shit—stuff—myself—"

Mary finally cracked—she laughed, and harder when Dean first looked surprised, then annoyed, then a little shamefaced and chuckled a bit himself. "It's fine Dean. Your room is empty—didn't turn it into a hobby room or a storeroom. I've got lots of room. And you will be doing your own laundry. And paying for your own food, and—"

"Got it, Mom. Thanks. God, thanks so much, you have no idea."

"Well, I believe you. In you. There's something different about you, Dean. I don’t know…but I'm glad. You come back home. Does…did you talk to Carmen about it?"

He nodded. "Yeah, she's the one who suggested that I might want to get out of her apartment. She offered to pack my stuff. I figured…she wants me out quick and in a hurry. No, it's okay. It's time," he said when Mary wanted to get angry. 

It felt like Carmen was throwing Dean away…but that wasn't really fair, was it? Carmen deserved a life as well. If the love wasn't there anymore, than it wasn't there. He'd been better with Carmen, but there'd still been some pretty tough times, and she'd stuck it out, did her best to keep Dean going. Mary figured they all had that to thank her for that. She sincerely hoped the girl would find someone who'd make her happy. 

Mary stood, and waved Dean along with her. "Let's get your room in order so you have somewhere to sleep tonight. It's going to be okay, Dean. You'll see."

=+=

Dean sat on the bed made up for a stranger. Of course all his old sheets were gone. No grown man needed Batman or Star Wars sheets…would have been kind of cool though. There was a new television sitting in an otherwise empty bookshelf. He turned it on, quickly lowered the volume when the news blared headlines into the room.

Those empty shelves were staring back at him, just a collection of blank spaces where his childhood used to be. His baseball trophies had used to stand there, bronze and silver and gold…empty frames that had held his wrestling certificates lay stacked on the bottom shelf. He stared at the spots where they should have been, neatly framed.

An odd little, sideways kind of shimmy worked its way through his head, making him feel like the floor was tilting and everything was sliding away from him.  
This was all wrong--he wasn't remembering it right, because the only damn award he'd ever had was still hanging on the wall at Sonny's place—

"Ah, shit! God damn it!" 

Pain dropped him to the floor, a sob he couldn't swallow muffled against the carpet. Almost as soon as it hit him, it was gone, and he rolled to his back, shuddering through waves of nausea. His eyelids fluttered with the effort of opening them.

He wasn't sure what he was doing on the floor. He got up, feeling clumsy and a little silly. Must've tripped on the rug or something. He put a careful hand to his head, feeling for a bump not there. His eyes tracked to the empty bookcase again, feeling shame for having torn up or burned any sign of a once happy childhood. God. He needed some water or something. Hell, he needed to get out of the house for a bit—too many memories. Maybe Mom needed something from the store for dinner.

He walked out to the hallway and shut the door on the TV, which went on describing to an empty room, in a grimly respectful voice, how this day was the anniversary of the crash of United Britannia Flight 424. How Indianapolis residents planned to hold a candlelight vigil in memory of the hundred and eight people who lost their lives….


	3. Chapter 3

**Sam (and Dean)**

_Dean!_

He froze for a few seconds but she seemed fine, normal. Her hands were shaking but still wrapped around the serpentine bars of the wrought iron headboard, and she was just easing back into normal breathing. She blinked her eyes open and gave him a slow grin. She was okay, so whatever he thought he'd said, he hadn't. It was just, he'd come so damn hard, he thought he'd heard Dean's name echoing in the air. It was still echoing in his head, could feel the shape of it in his mouth. 

_Fucking bastard._ Every time he had to deal with that waste of meat, the—the sex after was—Sam shivered. The sex after was screwed up and weird and really intense. It made him sick, but he couldn't stop himself. Thank god, Jess seemed to love it. Sam wasn't sure how he felt about that.

"Babe, are you okay? You look a little off."

"'m good, I'm fine, just fine," Sam said, and rolled off of her, splayed himself out across the rest of the king bed. 

Jess gave him a slightly skeptical look before wiggling out from under the leg he'd dropped across her. She dug her fingers into his tangled hair and massaged his scalp for a moment. "All right, if you're sure. I'm going to take a shower, you wanna—"

"I'll be in after you, just leave it running."

She shrugged, slid off the bed and headed to the bathroom. Sam watched her walk off because she had an amazing ass; it was a crime not to look. He watched, and like always, because he lived on the outskirts of Hell, a devil in the back of his mind whispered comparisons. _She's got a high, tight ass, but not as hot as…she's got long legs but without that curve…her lips are soft but not as full as…_ He listened until he couldn't anymore. He was swamped with a wave of guilt/ loathing, almost comforting in its familiarity. "That's my signal to get up," he muttered to himself. He untangled himself from the sheets and dragged himself out of bed. He sorted through the sweat pants on the bedroom floor, shrugging into his when he found them.

In their Spartan, stainless-steel kitchen, he started coffee, tossed a couple of muffins on a plate and called it breakfast. The pot beeped quietly—he poured himself a cup and headed out to the living room. 

His eyes swept over the space—beige, tan, black, with subtle touches of coral—Jess had a great eye for color and design, even someone as artistically challenged as himself could see how well it all hung together. 

Sam snorted softly; it was almost funny how Dean's life and his were polar opposites. You only had to walk into their separate places to see just how different they were—Dean and Carmen's place was fine, he guessed, but definitely kind of low end. Not that they had a lot of choice there, what with Dean being so aggressively blue-collar. Jesus, the jerk wore that mechanic's job like it was a slap in his and Dad's face. 

Sam had made the smart choice, he was the one to follow in Dad's footsteps, make something of himself. He'd been the one to graduate, go on to law school. Dean…he'd taken a stupid Saturday afternoon hobby that he'd shared with Dad and tried to turn it into a living. Spending every day he actually dragged himself to work getting greasy and stinking.

What a loser.

Sam leaned back on the sofa with his coffee. He was lucky—no, _smart—_ he loved his life, everything about it. Coming home to their place every night was definitely nice, calming. So much nicer than the crappy dump they'd had in college. Everything here was clean lines and modern furniture, all tastefully matched. Not like that Ikea/thrift store mash-up Dean had, and that _couch,_ that fucking couch crouched in their postage-stamp sized living room, practically swamping the room….

Sam's free hand curled into a fist, the hand holding the coffee shook with how tight his grip was. He glared out the living room windows, took calming breaths and watched the dark slowly brighten with the dawn. He wasn't being an asshole, he wasn't. It just pissed him off, that Dean had taken the ugly-ass couch that used to be in the family room at Mom and Dad's. Mom should have burned the fucking thing a long time ago. She sure shouldn't have given it to Dean, so he and Carmen could sit all over it, the stupid piece of shit—

He jumped up and paced around the living room, not breathing as calmly as he'd like, but sounding less like a bellows now he was on his feet. He forced his attention to the few pictures they had sitting out, placed neatly in the bookshelves. Jess thought it was kind of gauche, littering 'public spaces' with personal items. At least, that's what she said. Sam just thought it was messy and—fake. 

He shifted the frames, and actually looked at the photos there. There was a nice one of Jess, looking bright and sexy and real. There was one of his mom and dad. Dad looked serious…a rare occurrence because Dad was like Dean in that respect, always mugging or smiling weird, as though making goofy faces could hide how good-looking they were—Sam shoved the picture to the back of the shelf. 

There was an old picture of him in his soccer uniform next to an old picture of Jess in hers, a juxtaposition the both of them had always found funny, cute. That was it, the sum total of their family gallery. Nothing at all like that photo vomit Dean's place had all over the wall, or those ridiculously outdated photos Mom had scattered across what felt like every spare surface. Almost all of them were photographs from out of the past, because it was hard to find a more recent picture of Dean where he didn't look like a tweaked-out hooker or skid row drunk.

"Sam. Shower's ready—didn't you hear me? I called you a million times."

He whirled around, startled when Jess' hand landed on his shoulder. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of me."

"I see that," she said, dropping her hand as she stepped back. "Shower's yours if you want it. I'm gonna get ready for work. There's a meeting with the museum's board members today—about the funding to revamp the kids' workshop."

"There you go, help mold little future artists of America. I'm working from home today," Sam smirked. "I get to wear sweat pants and slipper socks all day. I think I'll wear the Winnie-the-Pooh ones, they'll match nice with—" he broke off with a laugh when she slapped his ass—maybe just a shade harder than she had to.

"Jerk." She flipped him off and went to dress while Sam manfully resisted rubbing his stinging flank.

He was leaning against the kitchen counter, chugging another cup of coffee and scrolling through new files the office had sent, when his phone trilled. He checked and scowled. _Carmen._ How did she know he was working from home today? He really didn’t want to be bothered with her shit. Why couldn't she just handle Dean on her own? He ignored the sick little curl of guilt that crawled through him any time he had to deal with her alone…he tried to blame it on too much caffeine….

"What do you want?"

"Yeah, hi to you too, Jesus. Look Sam, is there any way I can borrow your truck today? There's some stuff I want to take to your mom's. Like—quick as possible. If you drop it off on your way to work, I'll give you the keys to my car—"

"Did that asshole lose the apartment? Mom shouldn't have to put up with you two—"

"No, that 'asshole' did not mess up the lease. He's moving out, I'm keeping the apartment, by myself. So I need to get his stuff out. We agreed, it's over between us."

"You…" Sam dropped the cup to the counter. _"I'll_ get his stuff." The faster he got Dean's stuff away from her, the less they'd have to deal with her. And him. Together. "I'm home today. It won't be a problem."

"Oh! Oh…do you want me to ah, get lunch?"

 _"No._ I just want his stuff ready to go. I'll be there in…" he glanced at the clock, calculated the time Jess should be back, how long it would take for him to go through what he had to do that day. "Three hours. Is that enough time?"

"Yeah, sure, but Sam—"

"I'll see you then," he said and hung up. Whatever else she wanted, she'd better just forget it. He had no interest in her at all. The only reason she'd interested him even that littlest bit was strictly payback. He picked up his phone again, closed his eyes and counted to ten before calling. 

"Mom, what's this about Dean moving home?"

=+=

Four hours later, he flipped the tailgate up on the last box of Dean's stuff. He leaned against the truck and listened to Carmen's reasons why she couldn't take living with Dean any more. As far as Sam was concerned, it was the only smart move she'd made ever since she let Dean drag her out of whatever bar he'd found her in—which was the only way Dean would have found anyone.

"Listen, it's a good move. You need to start fresh, forget him. He was just a millstone around your neck and now you're free."

She nodded, eyes on the tips of her sneakers. She looked up after a bit, her eyes not quite meeting his. "I just don’t get it…what it this thing you have against Dean? Why do you guys hate each other like this?"

Sam felt a wave of sick fury wash over him. He had to swallow hard to pull himself back from the edge. When he spoke, he was proud of how steady his voice was. "Did Dean say he hated me?" If Dean hated him, so what. He didn't give a shit. Wasn't like that bastard had any kind of place in his life. 

"No, he didn't say he hated you, not in so many words. Most of the time he just seemed, I don't know…hurt. Angry because he was hurt."

"Really?" Sam laughed. "Hurt? Well, I can tell you one thing, he's got no reason to be hurt. _Or_ angry. He's a fucking jerk, and I wish he'd stayed gone." 

"How can you be that way about your own brother?"

Sam looked at her, barked out an incredulous laugh. "You of all people _have_ to know what a total asshole Dean is—hell, the fucker slept with my date on prom night. Prom night! And that's nothing compared to how he, he," Sam pressed his lips tight. "And you. You're no better than he is."

She took a step away, her face going pale, a look on her face like he'd stabbed her. _"Fuck_ you, Sam Winchester. I wasn't the one who chased you, I didn't pick and pick until— _fuck you,_ you unfaithful fuck!"

"That makes two of us," Sam said. "Three of us," he muttered, when Carmen couldn't hear him anymore.

He slung himself into the truck and drove off without a glance in the rearview mirror. The road ahead blurred in and out of view…he dragged the back of his hand across his eyes to clear them. He fumbled the radio on, turned it loud enough to rattle the windows, trying to smother his thoughts.

=+=

By the time he pulled up in his mom's driveway, he was calm again. He texted Jess to let her know what he was doing because he had the feeling this whole thing was going to take longer than he wanted—Mom would probably want to talk about it, and god, he just was not looking forward to that. He glanced over to the parking spot alongside the garage. He let go a relieved breath when he saw that Dean's tank wasn't there.

Mom was at the door, waving kind of half-heartedly. Sam rolled his eyes. Why was it everyone expected him to go off when it came to anything concerning his brother? 

He waved back, and went around to the back of the truck. The truck looked natural sitting in its usual spot. He wondered if it bothered his mom seeing it there—he wondered for the millionth time why he hadn't just sold it off instead of keeping it. 

He reached in to grab a box when he realized Mom was at his side, reaching in to grab a box as well.

"Mom, I got it—these are heavy."

"Then I'll just take the lighter ones, that's all."

Sam huffed, but couldn't help grinning too. She could not stand by when someone was working; she just was incapable of it. He waited until she turned to the house and then quickly pulled all of the really light boxes closer to where she could get them. 

It didn't take long to load Dean's stuff into the house—he just didn't have much. Kind of sad…pathetic, actually. Mom went downstairs to fix Sam a hamburger. He was pleasantly surprised. It'd been a while since he'd had a burger off the grill, and Mom's burgers were pretty darn good—not in the same league as Dad's, but whose were? Dad was a grill genius. His grin slowly dimmed to a sad little smile....

=+=

Mom told him to push all the boxes into the closet in Dean's old room and mentioned that she'd planned on clearing out Dad's office for him too, to use as a sitting room or whatever. At least she hadn't planned on giving that ass Sam's old room….still, Sam was highly pissed off. "Mom, you're just making him comfortable. You'll never get him out if you do that."

"Sam, he's your brother, not a stray animal," she said, before stomping off to the kitchen. 

Whatever, Sam shrugged. It was true—freeloaders like Dean stuck in like ticks if you gave them an inch. He shoved the boxes into Dean's closet and looked around his room. There wasn't much to see, not much that said this had been Dean's room. The bedding was a plain generic navy-blue, pretty new. There were two pillows and no sign of that scruffy, stuffed, dog-thing that a grown man shouldn't have had on his bed anyway. Stupid. 

Mom had taken down old posters and pictures and any sign Dean had played baseball or wrestled or graduated high school by the skin of his teeth. His desk was clean and only slightly dusty and that picture of Dean and him at one of his matches was gone. Probably got tossed, no big deal. 

The bookcase next to Dean's bed was empty, but it never had held anything but tapes and DVDs and sometimes dirty socks. 

Sam squatted and opened the heaviest box he'd brought up. It was loaded with books. "Hunh." 

He pulled a few out. Had Carmen given him one of her boxes instead? Not that she seemed much of a reader, either. He turned over the book he held and read the title _: Breakfast of Champions._ Kurt Vonnegut…there were some other titles by him, a few Steven King books, a mix of fantasy and science fiction. Reading must have been something Dean had come to like after he'd…run off, wandered away, whatever. He opened the cover on one and saw his brother's name carefully printed on the flyleaf. He checked and Dean's name was on almost all of them. Which meant he'd bought these books with some thought, some desire to have them. Sam shook his head. Looking at this pile of books wasn't going to do a thing towards understanding Dean. He didn't even want to understand him.

Sam turned to find his mom standing in the doorway with a hamburger for him, watching him put the last of Dean's books in the empty bookshelf. "What?"

"Nothing, just wondering where you were. Are those all his?"

"Yeah, weird, right? Who knew he could read?"

"Sam." Just that one word, as always filled with disappointment at his attitude towards her little princeling.

She set the burger down on the desk, and Sam snatched it up. Disappointed in him or not, Mom fed him regardless. He took a huge bite, and it was amazing—his mouth watered instantly and he barely muffled a moan, it was a Dad-caliber burger. "Wow, Mom, this is excellent—you outdid yourself."

She waited until he swallowed, and then said," Dean made it," with an entirely uncalled-for smirk. 

Sam couldn't help the way his face screwed up. He couldn't. Besides, on second thought, the thing was a little too salty. "Ye-aah…okay, well, I've gotta go; tonight's my turn to make dinner."

"Why don’t you invite Jess over for dinner instead?"

"No, thanks. Besides…Dean's gonna be here right, I mean, he's living here now and I—"

"You what, Sam? Don't want to run into me? Too late for that, dude." 

Like every single time he'd had to look at Dean since he'd been a teen, it felt like flaming shrapnel exploding in his chest. Sam turned, and there he was, filling up the door way. 

"Hey, Sammy."

Right on the heels of that weird, tangled feeling he never could (refused to) put a name to came the rage, the hatred. The guy who'd fucked up his family, broke his dad's heart so bad it killed him, made his mother into a person who never even saw her youngest son anymore because the horrible supernova of her oldest blinded her to everything else…was just _standing_ there like this was any other day. 

Sam broke out in gooseflesh—he bet the sound of his teeth grinding against one another was deafening everyone else like it was him. "Like I said, gotta go," he managed and tossed the plate down on the desk. He shouldered past Dean, trying to get in a good shot, the bastard didn't even move. In fact, he tried to put his hand on Sam, and Sam couldn't, wasn't having that.

"Sam, wait up, man…I missed you…"

"Shut up," Sam hissed and nearly ran out of the house. He was in the car park of his building before he was really aware of himself again.

It all fell apart that evening. It degenerated into a horrible night. Jess tried her best to talk to him, get him out of the shell of his anger and self-pity; he'd admit that's what it was. He was just relieved when she left him alone at last. That night, he curled up on his couch and tried to sleep. In that quietest hour before dawn, he cried, harder than he could remember crying before. Harder than he'd cried prom night, harder than when Dean left, or when he'd come home at last, showing up in the driveway, all smiles and stars in his eyes and Carmen's hand in his. _Meet the love of my life_ he'd said. 

The love of his life.

=+=

1995

_"Dean! Mom said to get your ass down here, dinner's ready!"_

_Dean came swinging down the stairs and swept Sam up, swung his long, newly bony self in a big arc. Sam squealed like a little pig, making Dean collapse in laughter. "Jesus, Samantha, what the hell was that?"_

_"You startled me—and tickled me, and I was afraid your weak ass was gonna drop me!"_

_"Hey, watch the mouth, hunh? Mom's right there in the kitchen." Dean dropped Sam, letting him slide down his side and looped an arm around his neck. Sam sank into his side like instinct, drinking in the warmth and the slight tackiness where their skin touched. He kinda liked it when Dean's sweat made him slip and slide against Sam's skin, liked the way they sometimes stuck together with it. He didn't talk about that, though. First off, because it was probably weird to think about another guy's sweat like that. Plus, he just had the feeling it was one of those things he should keep to himself._

_Dean suddenly attacked him—tickling him when he least expected it was just so wrong, so he wrestled Dean around the foyer until they staggered to a stop and Sam managed to trip Dean up. He jumped on his brother, startling a yelp out of Dean and a crow of "Victory!" from Sam. Sam immediately claimed his prize—a Dean shaped pillow._

_Sam lay with his head nestled on Dean's stomach, was still that way when Dad stepped into the house and over them like they lay every day blocking the doorway. Probably what made Dad a good lawyer, Sam thought. He was kind of unflappable. Cool as a cucumber._

_"Sons. Comfortable?" He dropped his brief case on the stairs and kicked his shoes off. "Hope your day was better than mine. I'm so ready for dinner—speaking of which, why aren't you in the kitchen helping your mom?"_

_"Going now, sir," Dean called. Sam scrambled to his feet first, but Dean still managed to dash into the kitchen before him._

_Later that evening, after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, he sat on the lawn with Dean in the dark and listened to him go and on about that big, black car he and Dad were working on, how cool it was gonna be.._

_The moon gave Dean's skin a bluish tint, and instead of making him look creepy, it made him look like…a statue. Marble, except for his lips. Dean's lips shone, wet, pink, and looked so soft. Sam bit his own lip and imagined Dean's between his teeth, how it would be soft and give a little, be hot and smooth and…damn. He crossed his legs and hoped Dean hadn't noticed. He didn't. He kept on about the damn car, and tilted his head back to the sky, let the moon paint his throat with silvery light, line his lashes with black._

_Sam hated himself. He couldn't stop looking at his brother, loving him. Dean was perfect. Funny, and sweet, and kind, Dean always acted like he was special. Other guys talked about their brothers like they were barely civilized hyenas but not his. Dean loved him. Sam just wished…he sighed softly and looked away from Dean, hiding suddenly wet eyes…._

1990

_"Hey De, I need help."_

_"Sure, Sammy. Wait, with what?"_

_"My teacher, Mrs. Orman, she wants us to make a scrapbook. About autumn. I don’t know what to do, and I'm afraid everyone's gonna laugh at me."_

_"No one's laughing at you, Sammy. I'll help. It'll be an excellent scrapbook, the best she's ever seen, trust me."_

_"I do."_

_Sam held his hand out and after a second, Dean took it with a smile. "Okay, Sammy. First, we need some leaves, an' some wax paper. And then I'll show you this cool trick Mom showed _me_ when I was your age." _

_"You're so smart, Dean."_

_'Nah, I just remember stuff pretty good."_

_Sam got a good grade on his scrapbook, so Dean had been right, it was an excellent scrapbook. Sam decided he wanted to buy Dean something nice for all his help, so he washed dishes all by himself (with Mom's help) for a week to make enough money. He bought Dean a squashy, little, stuffed Dachshund, with a velvet collar and long, soft ears. Dean named it Meyer and it lived on Dean's bed ever after that. Unless it was sitting between them in the car. Meyer liked car rides._

1999  
September  
_"Dean, don't, I need you, you can't, Dean please, please—"_

_"Sam, this *is* for you. What if Mom and Dad knew? It would be—fuck, the end of everything! This is gonna fuck you up so bad—it's fucking me up. If you don't care about yourself, at least care about me."_

_"But this is good for the both of us, can't you see that? How can you just walk away?"_

_"Oh my god! That's you, isn't it, Sammy? So fucking selfish. You just take and take and take from me and you'll keep doing it until there's nothing left!"_

_"You're wrong, you're wrong, I give you everything! Everything I am, it's all yours, can't you see that, feel that, Dean—come back here, don’t you dare fucking leave, you hear me—"_

1999  
May

_Hey…Dean._

_Dean watched Sam, watched the way his eyes changed, got dark and hot and it made him squirm. The slightly nubby fabric of the couch stroked the back of his legs, made him scoot down and his legs swept open. "Sammy. Sam, not here, not in the family…."_

_"We'll be really, really…" Sam crawled across Dean's lap, Dean groaned, quieted when Sam gently covered his mouth,"…really, really quiet."_

_Dean moaned against Sam's soft palm, and his hips lifted instinctively, it spurred Sam on; he ended up with his knees digging into the couch and his ass sitting right on Dean's dick. Hands on Dean's shoulders, he moved his hips, sliding back and forth, the ridge of Dean's dick putting just the right amount of pressure against his hole. His loose, thin shorts rode higher and higher up his legs._

_This was…finally. Finally Dean was giving in to this thing that had haunted the both of them—forever._

_Dean's hands slid from their tight grip on his hips to creeping under the hem of Sam's shorts. Sam wanted to cry, he wanted to scream…he could feel Dean's dick lurch, and his own thumped, trapped in too much fabric._

_Dean managed to push Sam's hand away from his mouth and kissed him. Kissing Dean was familiar, the way his hot tongue rubbed silky and wet inside Sam's mouth, the way he sucked on his lip and bit, just enough to make Sam's dick jump more and practically soak the front of Sam's shorts. Dean moaned and suddenly his fingers weren’t flirting with the hem of his shorts anymore, they were under the material and before Sam could let out a breath, strong fingers wrapped around his dick, stroked-squeezed in just the right way—Sam was stunned with how perfect it was. His head dropped to Dean's shoulder. Sam opened his mouth on the warm, smooth skin there as he came—shockingly hard waves gripped him, made him grind down on Dean's dick so hard he swore he felt the crown rubbing against his hole. Dean came at that, fucking his hips up against Sam and doing his best not to make a sound. Sam swore he'd never forget Dean whimpering against his throat for as long as he lived._

_They'd both finally rode out the aftershocks, and were drowsily rocking against each other, and Sam muttered into Dean's damp, probably tooth-bruised shoulder, "Fuckin' love this couch.'_

_Dean chuckled back softly, "I know, right?"_

_"You're good with this right Dean? I mean, you want this too, right?_

_"Sam, are you freaking out over this? Do we need to talk about this?"_

_"God, no, not freaking—I've loved you forever, Dean. I just want you to not get twisted with this, just Promise me?"_

_How could I, Sammy? You're all…shit, you're my everything, I swear."_

1999  
August  
_But Dean had time, too much time, Sam thought, to think about it. And when summer ended, Dean was gone—still home, but too high most of the time to really be with them. He fought with Dad and with Mom, hid in the garage after and cried, he got high and stayed high, and pushed Sam so far away, they couldn't see each other at all._

2000

_"This your prom date, buddy? She's cute." Dean winked at Rachel, Sam watched the way she watched Dean's tongue, that sinful pink tip, nestled into the corner of his mouth. He remembered how Dean rolled the tip of his tongue into Sam's dick, licked that little slit open, until Sam was moaning and thrashing in the back seat of the car, stinking up the air with sex, and fogging up the windows, it made Sam hurt—a stabbing lance of pain right above his dick. In his fucking heart, faithless bastard drunk…._

_Dean licked the corner of his mouth again, rolled his tongue back into his mouth and Rachel made a little noise of disappointment. The both of them watched Dean and Sam felt heat dash his cheeks. Pissed off that Dean was flirting with her, that Dean hadn't noticed him. Almost like he'd read Sam's mind, he turned to him._

_"Umm. You look good too, Sam. You were made for…a tux." The words rolled out of Dean's mouth in a lazy drawl, his eyes all over Sam, a hot, sticky grin on his face. He licked the tip of a finger and slid it into his mouth. Sam flinched—what would Rachel think, no brothers talked to each other like that. Looked at one another like that…like he wanted to fuck him right there in front of the house._

_Sam felt heat explode in his middle, felt his dick thicken, being under Dean's hot regard again. Dean's eyes were that dark green they got when he was walking his fingers slowly up the soft, tingling skin inside Sam's thighs. Sam remembered the sound Dean would make when he cupped his balls, when his finger would stroke slow, steady, a constant pressure lower and lower between his legs. The look on Dean's face when the tip of his finger would slide into Sam. His cheeks and his lips flushed, stained red. Sweat beading under his eyes and his chin. The punched out little exhale when Sam tightened on him, when Sam tilted his head back and spread his legs wide for Dean. The sound Dean would make that first stroke when he sank balls deep in Sam's ass and all he could say was Sam's name, over and over. The way he'd tell Sam that he loved him._

_Only now, Dean's eyes slid off of him again like he was a stranger, like he was barely worth noticing and all that heat was directed at Rachel._

_Halfway through the night Rachel disappeared, and like a fool Sam went looking for her. He should have just opened an upper room window and thrown himself face-first into the parking lot. It would have felt pretty much the same._

_He ran around the building kind of pointlessly because he found her just where he'd known he would. He just couldn't go there first, he couldn't._

_There it was, hulking down in the dark at the back of the lot, uninvited, unwanted. Dean's fucking car, the fucking Impala. Sam's eyes went wet straight away, all the air in his lungs turned to powdered glass._

_She was in the car, of course. She was down on the backseat, her thin, young neck tilted back and stained with kisses, her thighs spread wide for Dean. He watched Dean, what he could see of him, his bare ass, flexing and stretching as he drove into her sharp and fast, not like he'd ever fucked Sam. Never like he didn't even care if he was there or not. But not any more, Dean didn't fuck him any more. Or touch him, or hug him or *see* him at all, at all._

_Through the closed windows Sam could hear the soft grunts and exhales, Rachel's shaky little moans. Her hair was losing shape, all those artfully placed curls unwinding, sticking to her face and mouth and to Dean._

_Dean reared up, pulling out and grabbing her shoulder, he laughed and said, "Hey, I don’t have a rubber, sorry. Can you…"_

_Sam was right there. Right there outside the car, they _had_ to know, how could Dean not know, but Rachel nodded and Sam watched Dean's red, slick, thick dick part her lips, slide into her mouth, in and in…Sam sobbed, pulled himself out and jerked off, coming with Dean, painting the side of the car with come. He tucked himself back in while Dean hung over Rachel, panting. Then he pulled open the door, and while Rachel screamed, punched Dean right in his face, screaming, "You fucking whore, you fucking whore" while Rachel covered her face and cried, screamed, "I'm not—I'm not."_

_God. Like he even knew she was there._

_It was all over school the next few weeks, how Sam Winchester's brother had fucked his girlfriend—ex-girlfriend now—in the parking lot of the Marriot on prom night, and how in return, Sam Winchester had beaten his brother to a bloody pulp._

2003

_"I hate you."_

_Dean paused at the backdoor, balancing the Impala's keys in his hand. "Yeah?" He smirked. He turned to Sam. "Not gonna put on a show, are ya? Gonna take a swing at me, Sam? Kick my ass again? Though, guess I deserved that one time, sorry," he said, looking anything but._

_Sam didn't move, he didn't raise his voice. He looked almost…bored. "I hate you. We all do."_

_Dean actually flinched. For a moment, he looked devastated. And then he frowned. "Don't speak for Mom and Dad."_

_Finally Sam showed emotion. He threw his head back and laughed, a little too long and too hard. He wiped at his eyes, "Whew, well whataya know, you can still make me laugh. What do you think, asshole? You stole from them—they've had to bail your worthless ass out of jail, you're a drunk, probably a junkie, and definitely a whore—how do you think they feel about you right now?"_

_Dean was breathing fast, heavy, his face was red and his eyes…Sam glared at him, fixing his eyes on a freckle to the left of Dean's mouth. "And you, Sam?"_

_"I told you. I. Hate.You. I hope one day you walk out of our lives and never come back."_

_Dean nodded. "Okay, Sammy," he said, and walked out the door._

=+=

Sam fought his way out of a thick, clinging sleep, memories reluctantly peeling away as he woke. Those had been bad days, terrible days. He hated remembering them.

It was Dean's fault, this horrible rehashing of the past. When Sam didn't have to see him or think about him, it was easy to pretend there was no such thing as Dean. The minute they crossed paths, things just went to shit, every single time. He let anger drive him, he made bad decisions, he did…weird things, he mistreated his fiancé. His brother made him miserable, even when he wasn't actively trying to. And now he was in Mom's house? How was Sam supposed to avoid that dick, with him right there all the damn time?

Sam dressed, ate a quick and silent breakfast with Jess, and went in to the office. He sat at his desk and thought about Dean, probably bent over some car right now, sweating and dirty, haggard and worn and _poor—_ while he sat comfortable and cool in a leather chair that cost more than Dean paid in rent and utilities a month, smelling of two hundred dollar cologne.

Dean was a grease monkey; Sam was an associate attorney with Benton & Talbot. Dad had been so proud and had told Sam so, over and over. He'd worked hard towards a goal while Dean had been fucking around America, being a drunk and a loser. There was no fucking way Dean could ever, ever, _ever_ beat him at this game of life, no way ever....

Sam bent over his desk with a harsh gasp, feeling like he'd been shot in the gut. He curled his hands over the edge; he'd worked at slamming mental doors, shutting off feelings until it was a physical pain but one he could ignore. He'd cried so much, he'd be _damned_ if he shed another tear over Dean in this lifetime.

=+=

The day dragged on and on, and it was nearly ten before he was home again. Jess was sitting up, waiting for him. He squashed the prickle of annoyance he felt. He'd planned on grabbing a bite and maybe a beer and relaxing a bit before bed.

She looked at him; her full lips pressed tight and turned down. "Are you planning on sleeping on the couch again tonight?"  
"Jess." God, he was in no mood for this tonight.

"No, I just want to know, because every time Dean shows his face, it throws our whole life out of alignment. He's like some kind of albatross around our necks, Sam, he always has been. Hate him or not, he's the most important person in your life. Hell, whether you realize it or not, we've built our whole damn life around him. Why can't you just let go?"

Sam snapped,"I have no idea what you're talking about! That's crazy, Jess. He's just—he has nothing to do with our life." 

"Nothing to—oh my god, he's the freaking elephant camped out eternally in the room! You despise him, you talk about him like he's the worst kind of trash, but then you flew back here when he crashed his car and almost killed himself; you sat outside his room until they were sure he'd live, and you never even spoke to him. What kind of shit is that? And then to forbid your parents to tell him you came?" She shifted on the couch to face away from him and glared out the window. "I bet it killed you he never even asked if you'd showed."

"I don't have to listen to this shit, okay? I don’t know what the hell suddenly got under your skin, but I'll wait it out at my mom's— _damn it."_ He'd forgotten he had no safe place anymore. He rubbed his face, feeling exhausted, hollowed out. When he looked back towards the couch, Jess was staring at him again.

"You have some kind of obsession with your brother, and I want to tell you, I think it's edging on something…sick. You need help where he's concerned. It's–it's not normal, Sam."

Sam waved her off. "God, you don't know what you're talking about." He wheeled around. "I'm—I'm going out. I'm going—somewhere."

"You're being ridiculous, Sam. Go to bed. Just…go to bed," she said, sounding every bit as exhausted as Sam felt. 

He stared down the hallway, and it just felt like it was a million miles away. It was too much trouble to move. He slumped into the wall, his head hanging down, hair brushing his face. He swept it back and tried to work up some energy. "I'm sorry. I don’t want to make you unhappy. I'm sorry." 

"Just go. You don’t even know what you're apologizing for."


	4. Chapter 4

**Dean (and Sam)**

Jim ducked his head in the lunchroom doorway and called out to Dean. Dean sighed. Fantastic. Now, when he'd finally got the time to eat lunch, here came Pastor wanting to talk—and Dean was freakin' starving, shit. But he turned with a smile and asked, "What's up, Jim?" because he was polite and because he wasn't a fool, no matter what his brother thought. Certainly not fool enough to piss off the one person who believed in him, after all.  


"Can I have a word with you?" 

Kate was at one of the tables in the corner of the room. She peeked over the top of her magazine at them before setting it down and stabbing her fork into some kind of salad. "Is this gonna be one of your pep-talks, Pastor? 'Cause if it is, I'm going to have to ask you not do it in the lunchroom. I'm trying to enjoy this all too brief half hour," she said, rolling her eyes at them. "'Come to Jesus' messes with my digestion."

Dean jerked his chin her way. "You're a bad person, Kate. I'm not even sure if you have a heart. I think you should know that," he said. Kate just stabbed a tomato slice and winked at him. 

"I think she's kind of proud of it," Jim laughed softly, shaking his head. "Don’t you worry though, Kate's my number one project," he whispered as he started to nudge Dean out of the lunchroom, his hand a warm weight on Dean's shoulder. Dean just managed to keep himself from leaning into it. It was nice, and for a brief second, he really missed his dad. 

He glanced back into the lunchroom, just in time to catch Kate's smile slide from cocky to sympathetic. She looked annoyed that he'd caught her; she snapped her magazine upright to cover her face. "Beat it, Winchester."

He grinned all the way to Jim's office.

"Sit down for a second, Dean." Jim waved at the one nice chair in the office, a clean and comfortable chair that faced his desk and was meant for their customers. 

"Sure thing. What's up?" Dean felt a faint flicker of worry. He was pretty sure he hadn't screwed up recently—like, eighty-nine percent sure. Jim just leaned back in his own chair, a soft smile aimed at Dean. 

"Dean, I admit that I've been keeping a sharp eye on you lately, and…I have to say, I certainly am pleased with what I've been seeing. I mean, you were doing well, before—y'know, before—"

Dean nodded, cheeks going hot—he knew damn well what Jim was referring to: that backsliding, out of nowhere, weird _glitch_ that had hit him a few months ago.

"I'm saying you were doing pretty good, but you had no _spark,_ you weren't…I don't mean to say you seemed unhappy…."

Nodding, Dean rubbed the back of his neck and tried hard to remember how he'd felt months ago. He got what Jim was trying to say in his soft-spoken, careful way. He was pretty sure he'd just been going through the motions, just trying hard not to fuck up. Even now, it felt like his every move and thought were all tied up in _not_ fucking up. But there were moments now he could stop and breathe again, look outside himself and see that there was a whole world out there—surprisingly—and not all of it sucked balls. He smiled at Jim—he definitely owed Jim thanks for some of that.

Jim clapped his hands lightly against his desktop. "Now, that's the smile I've missed for a long, long time. Bet your mother is happy to see it too, hunh?"

Dean outright laughed at that, and at the way Jim's face lit up at Dean's response. "Yeah, well—Mom's spoiling the fu—heck out of me." He peered at Jim. "Is it bad that I'm kind of lovin' it too?"

Jim waved off Dean's not entirely joking worry. "Enjoy it for right now, son. And anything I can do to help you get things rolling when you’re ready, just let me know."

"Thanks, Jim." Jim raised a hand, about to downplay his assistance, but Dean stopped him. "No, man, I _mean_ it—thanks, for everything."

"Well, you're welcome, Dean. You know, your dad would be so proud of you right now."

Yeah…maybe, Dean thought to himself. Probably not. Compared to Sam, he was still a pretty poor prospect. 

They chatted for a few seconds about the car Dean was about to start working on, and then Jim sent Dean to lunch. He headed out to the shop instead of the lunchroom, aiming for an out-of-the way spot. He dropped his lunch bag on a clean corner of a bench and looked around, taking it all in like he'd never seen it before. Hell, there was no way Sam's job was as cool as this, freaking desk jocky that he was. This job, taking something that was broken, fixing it, making it better—sometimes better than it had been—this was really living. Poor Sam had no idea…and Dean had no idea how to share that feeling with him. He really wished he could. Wondered if Sam would even listen. Probably not, not these days. Hell, he'd apparently lost the right to even ask Sam to listen.

Dean grabbed a mostly clean shop rag, along with some hand cleaner, from under the bench and worked at getting the grease off his hands. He had a streak of black across his knuckles. It stood out like a shout on his pale freckled skin. Once, when Sam was…way too fucking young, his touch had left black streaks like that on Sam's skinny hips. He remembered how hypnotic those black fingerprints had been to him, sooty little dots and dashes over that milky-smooth curve of ass, marking that baby-fine skin, same as if he'd signed _'Dean's'_ all over Sam. A hot, unexpected jolt of lust tore through him. He glanced around and quickly pressed a palm to his traitor dick, gasping at his own touch, remembering Sam's.

Dean shook his head, disgusted with himself. A thick soup of guilt /shame washed through his arousal, killing it instantly. Why couldn't it kill the feeling he was missing something as necessary as air? This thing between him and Sam, it wasn't lust. Well, to be honest, it wasn't _just_ that. He missed the closeness, and knowing that the person he knew best knew him that way too. He missed his brother. He missed his goddamn best friend in all the world. 

He spent the rest of his shift feeling out of step with himself, and wanting more than anything to talk to his little brother.

=+=

Naturally, in what Dean could only figure was a result of bad karma, he got an opportunity see Sam that very weekend, the operative word being _see._ As in, see his bitchy ass sail right past Dean mowing the yard.

Dean got to watch him march up the drive, head held high and pointedly ignoring him as he headed into the house. Sam whistled once, ear-splitting and sharp, and Bonesy came tearing around the corner of the house, throwing himself at a grinning Sam.

Dean felt a ridiculous amount of jealousy toward the happy dog. It felt really shitty, remembering how once upon a time, he'd have had that dimpled smile directed at _him._ Back when Sam's cheeks were still softly rounded and he was a little goofy-looking—him and his pukka shell necklace and greased-down bangs, his head wobbling on top of that long stalk of neck he'd had then. God, that neck had looked so pretty stained up and down with the marks he'd put there—

Dean shook off those thoughts like a dog shaking off water.

Later on, he hid out on the back deck, sucking back a coke and consoling Bonesy on the once-again loss of his Sammy. He rolled the cold glass bottle between his aching fingers and wondered, had Sam always visited Mom this much?

=+=

Dean began to notice just how often Sam came and went—always pointedly ignoring him, of course. At first, he just ran in and out on the occasional evenings, but then, it seemed he started showing up more frequently. Dean would come home late from work sometimes to find Sam weeding the garden with Mom, or come back from a Saturday morning run and find him at the breakfast table. He was beginning to think Sam didn't really have a job, but Mom told him he worked from home sometimes, so Dean just shrugged and figured it must be nice, and forgot about it.

Sort of, anyway. It was hard to completely ignore Sam, especially at times like this. He watched Sam stroll through Mom's kitchen like he owned it, pull open her fridge and yank out a bottle of her water and guzzle it like he paid for it. Seemed suddenly it was a new habit of his to drop in after his own runs, sweating and breathing hard, swamped in huge t-shirts with the sides cut all out. It fucking verged on obscene, him flashing his freakin' nipples at the damn neighborhood, and those _shorts—_ hung so low he couldn't see how the fuck Sam wasn't running right out of them. Showing off those fucking dimples above his ass that he could put his thumbs in—and had, holding him open and just…fuck, licking, kissing that dusky pink, pouting little ring, slipping fingers inside that heat and…

Sam threw the bottle in the recycling bin—Dean jumped at the sudden rattle. Blinked like mad and tried to subtly ease his half-hard dick. Sam didn't pay him the slightest mind, thank god. Sam marched off in search of Mom, and Dean just watched his ass work as he jogged out of sight—then moaned a little when his dick thumped under his palm.

What the fuck was wrong with Jess that she let him run around like that?

Dean looked out the kitchen window, Sam was talking to Mom, the both of them smiling. Mom looked relaxed, happy. Dean had to admire her; the woman had the patience of a saint. Stuck right in the middle of all this non-conversing, fighting with eyebrows and snorts and exasperated sighing. Watching him and Sam come and go, dancing around each other like, like…dueling dogs, and she never said a word. Except once, when Mom and he had been watching a movie in the family room, _Blade._ Say what you wanted to about what a douche Snipes was, Dean thought, he'd been hot as hell in that role. The vampire stuff was such laughable bullshit, though…. 

They'd been curled up on the comfortable old couch that he'd brought back from Carmen's; ignoring that pretentious piece of shit Sam had bought her a few years ago to replace it when Dean had moved out. Dean had been comfortable, hunkered down in the corner that'd been his since high school, Mom tucked in the other, passing popcorn and M&Ms back and forth. He could tell something was on her mind, the way she kept sneaking him looks, and not just to check that he wasn't brushing dropped kernels under the couch with his feet. 

It took a try or two until she finally spoke, and at that point, Dean was dreading whatever was about to come out of her mouth. It was weird—ended up having nothing to do with him at all, not what he expected in the least. She'd asked if Dean thought maybe Jess and Sam were having some trouble. Considering that Sam had spent the night more than once or twice that month, his guess was…yes? 

She'd just nodded, looking very sad, and they watched the rest of the movie in silence.

=+=

Dean squinted against the bright sun, elbows on the porch rail as he watched the street. He was watching Mr. Bolton from across the street go out for his mail. The sight of the man made his thoughts go cold and blank. The other day, he'd waved at that asshole Bolton and he'd oh-so-reluctantly waved back, discomfort obvious in every line of him. It rankled. It shouldn’t. But it did.

At least Jim and the guys were giving him a chance—more than that, they _believed_ in him. So, that meant he was more than an asshole, right? Because people liked him. Mom believed in him. Said she did, anyway. 

Dean sighed and pulled away from the railing. It was a nice day. Maybe he should…weed the garden, trim the hedges or something with the yard. Felt like it'd been centuries since he'd last done that. Dean stopped. Odd. He literally could not remember the last time he'd done it. Or Sam had. Or Dad…great, nothing like running up against one of his blank spots to really fuck with his head. Maybe…maybe he should tell Mom about them. He would. If they kept happening, or if they got worse, he would.

=+=

He was just about to take a break from whacking away at the forsythias. For some damn reason his wrists were fucking killing him. They felt scraped raw and ached like a son of a bitch, his shoulders too. Fuck, but he was out of shape. He glanced around, rubbing his wrists and idly checking out the other yards, when he caught sight of Sam lurking over in the Boltons' driveway. He was staring at Dean like…he didn't know what it was like, besides borderline creepy. "Hey…Sam. You, ah, coming over?"

Sam stood there silently, like he hadn't heard Dean, just looking around, peering about like he had no idea where he was. It was odd, almost like Sam didn't see him or the house or anything. He started walking in Dean's direction.

"Sammy, what the fuck—" Sam looked terrible—haggard and worn, his eyes full of a desperate kind of light. His hair was a mess, flying in his face when he shook his head. His hands went up to shoulder height and his fingers curved like he was holding something. "Dean," he called. "Dean—"

"Sam? Sammy, come here—"

"Oh great, DTs on the front yard, right in front of the neighbors. Just perfect. Mom oughta sell tickets."

Dean spun round and somehow, Sam was behind him now, giving him a look so bitter it had to hurt. It was so over-the-top, it sparked an impulse to laugh—but he wasn't that stupid, not by a long shot. He might be having some memory problems, but not when it came to knowing exactly what Sam's reaction was to being laughed at.

Decidedly dangerous.

Dean stepped back from the driveway and away from Sam. Now that he realized Sam was there, he was pissed with himself that he hadn't caught the truck pulling up. That kind of inattention was dangerous, sloppy…he was thinking Dad would have his ass for being so out of it, but…no, that had to be another damn glitch, another weird, not-real-memory rattling around in his head. He glanced back at Bolton's drive again—it was empty, of course. Still, Dean had a lingering sense of being off-kilter. He had the oddest feeling that there really were two Sams, and his cob-webby brain was having no problem believing that, damn it. 

He shook his head hard, trying to settle his brain back on track. "Hey, Sam," he started, but stopped, looking Sam up and down. He looked great, of course…healthy, tanned, and his hair was perfect. Naturally. Giant girl.

"I've got nothing to say to you," Sam snapped, then called out, "Mom," as he jogged up the drive towards the front door.

"What an asshole," Dean muttered—but unfortunately, not as quietly as he'd intended, because Sam whirled around to glare at him. Dean expected fury, but instead, what he got an eyeful of Sam's hurt face—fuck, he couldn't stand when Sam looked crushed like that. 

Sam spun around and dashed into the house. 

_Damn it._ He knew damn well Sam had reasons to hate him—a lot of reasons. He'd treated Sam like shit; deliberately hurt him, over and over, but….

Dean grabbed the mower's bar and yanked it towards the back yard. It was just…none of it felt _real._ It was almost impossible to hold in his head, that he could've done the things he'd done to _Sam_. And all right, he'd had a reason for some of that shit, but some of the things he'd done were just…disgusting. Mean, vicious, _punishing,_ for no reason other than…he thought he'd had to. It had started as a means to save Sam from himself and from him Dean, but it had ended up breaking them both instead, turning them into cardboard cut-outs of people. He'd been wrong, he'd had to be, because look at Sam, look at the people he'd wronged, because of Sam and what he'd thought was right.

He pushed the mower into the shed and stood there in the dark, head tilted up so the tears wouldn't run. His heart was racing, chest clenching with the need to breathe. God he _missed_ his brother, so fucking much it hurt. It hurt.

Before he could push the mower towards the back wall, a weight hit him, shoving him forward into the gloom of the shed—"Ow! Fuck—"

Hands gripped him hard enough to hurt, flipped and slammed him up against the wall. There was a dull _thunk_ as he hit so hard the muscles in his shoulders seized up painfully, and then a mouth was on his, lips smearing frantic and clumsy against his, spit smeared across his mouth and his cheek and then, teeth were gripping his lip, he opened quickly and let it happen. 

_Sam._ Sam's weight, his heat, holding him up against the wall, one leg forcing itself between his. Sam's kiss grew more desperate, frantic, and Dean met him…the hands that were on his shoulders dropped to his waist, one hooked into the top of his jeans, barely grazing his dick, making it jerk. He rose up on his toes, like that might force Sam's hand in deeper. He could feel the hot, hard brand of Sam against his thigh, pushing, rocking, so close, tight, he felt Sam's dick jump when he groaned— _God, yes, c'mon,_ he thought and then—

Sam jumped back, his eyes wide and wild. 

Of course, Dean saw it coming; Sam telegraphed his punch from a mile away. Little sparks arced in his brain—in the moment before Sam connected, he knew exactly what to do to take Sam down, how to deflect the punch, how to pop Sam's kneecap out of joint, how to break his elbow, his nose.

But he didn't. Instead, he fell back against the wall and let the kid punch him. Because he needed it, and that was what Dean did, give his little brother what he wanted, needed. Besides, anytime he'd not given Sammy what he wanted, it hadn't ever worked out for either of them.

Sam's fist collided with him, sunk in his stomach and drove the air out of his lungs. "Fuck," Dean wheezed. "Good thing you hit like a girl, Sammy—"

He was already coming out of his pained curl, looking up at Sam and trying to smile. Sam looked—wrecked. Mouth swollen, eyes bright red like he'd been crying for hours. He made a terrible sound that scared Dean.

"Sam, no, it's okay, wait—"

But Sam backed up, faster than Dean could reach him and was gone, flying across the backyard, throwing himself into Dad's truck and in seconds he was gone. 

"Shit, shit, shit, shit…" Dean dropped down on the shed floor and pounded his fist on his thigh, hard as he could. 

"Dean?"

Mom was standing in the doorway. "Did something happen? With Sam?"

 _God._ Dean raised his eyes to her and didn't even try to hide the tears. "Mom," he choked out. "Sam…" he had no idea how to go on, what to say. He just shrugged one shoulder, said again, "Sam."

She stared down at him, the kind of stare he'd see on some guys sometimes, guys who'd seen too much…he had no word for it…just; looking into her eyes was like staring into the Grand Canyon or the midnight sky or eternity.

He blinked, and she wiped her eyes, and was just his mom again. 

"Dean…the falling out you had with Sam, whatever it was—it made everything fall apart, split the family into us and Sam. We all pretended it was okay for as long as we could, until Sammy shattered and you ran away. I think…you thought you were protecting him from. Something. Maybe…you. I mean..." She wiped at her eyes again, heaved a bone-deep sigh and said, "I'm not sure what I mean, except, maybe it wasn't the right choice. This is your last chance Dean, look after Sam. Do whatever you have to do to get him to listen, because I'd rather not lose the both of you all over again."

=+=

Dean sat on the ground for a long time after his mom left him. Bonesy came gallumping along and sat with him for a while, keeping him company, slow-motion crawling his huge self into Dean's lap when he realized Dean wasn't going to push him off. Dean was only half-aware he was there, anyways. What stumbled around his mind was Mom, and what she said and didn’t say. Finally he pulled himself upright. He'd do the only thing he could—treat this afternoon like it never happened.

It worked for all of three days before Dean caved. The fucking—Incident, whatever—wouldn't leave him alone. _He_ couldn't leave it alone. Like a fuckin' dog with a bone. Sam, Sam, the inside of his damn brain was all Sam, all the time. Just thinking about the feel of Sam's mouth on his again was enough to make him hard in seconds—it was like puberty all over again. Thinking about those few seconds, of almost getting Sam's hand on his dick guaranteed a fucking lightning quick orgasm. It was embarrassing…it was so good he couldn't let himself think about it too often. 

It was so much more than that, though. Just the feeling of Sam, having Sam in his space, warm and…fuck he missed him. Fuck, fuck ,fuck, he _missed_ Sam.

It was driving him crazy—so nuts he was beginning to see Sam all over the damn place, places he couldn't be. Back of the shop, at the grocery store…once he looked up and there was Sam standing next to him while he was taking a piss, almost gave him a heart attack…sometimes, out of the corner of his eye, he'd catch Sam sitting in the car. Never looked directly at his brother because…he didn't want to _not_ see him there. 

His life was getting nuts with fuckin' wheels on, and that scared him a hell of a lot more than those memory glitches. He was gonna bite the bullet and call Sam. Maybe if he talked to him—about anything—his brain might settle down some. That's if Sam didn’t kill him first.

He searched his phone that evening, looking for Sam's number. His stomach dropped when he realized that he only had Sam's old California number…could barely recall where Sam was living. He couldn't believe he didn't know. He lived in the same town as his brother and yet had only the vaguest idea of where Sam lived. What kind of shit was that? 

He needed to change this; it had to change—for his sanity's sake. Whatever this thing was with Sam (you know exactly what this is, has always been, a distant part of him said) he had to see what he could do to make some kind of repairs.

=+=

Mom looked kind of hesitant, before handing over her phone. "He might not be very happy to hear from you." She huffed a dry little laugh. "Might not. Yes, I'm pretty sure it's a given, he won't want to talk to you. But I'm glad you're trying, Dean. You two need to be brothers again," she said. Before she walked out of the kitchen, she stopped, trailed her hand gently across his check and rested it on his head. She patted him once or twice, just like she used to when he was a kid and worried about…a test, a date…his brother.

Sitting in the kitchen alone, he stared at the phone, fingers hovering over it, shaking a bit. He fought down nerves and just hit the number. There. First step…to probably getting his ass kicked. 

"Hey, Mom. What's up?"

"Aah, not Mom, Sammy—Sam, sorry."

"The fuck? Does Mom know you have her phone? Did you steal it, you lous—"

"Oh, for fuck's sake—yes, she knows! I'm right here in the kitchen, dude—" Damn it. Oh yeah, do that, build bridges by yelling at him. Idiot. "I'm. I. I just wanted to…I was hoping that you wouldn't hang up on me right away. I wanted to say, sorry.

"Sorry?" Sam shouted into the phone, "Sorry? You're the one—you made me—oh, why can't you just disappear? Again," he snarled and his voice cut like a scalpel.

"Sam, if you think I'm apologizing for the other day in the shed, than yeah sorry, I don't feel bad about that. What I _want_ to apologize for, I can't—saying it doesn't even begin to make up for…fuckin' years of, of, " Dean trailed off…there was silence on the line, maybe Sam had hung up, maybe not. Dean just kept talking. He'd say it all again, if need be. "There's no way I can ever begin to make up for the way I mistreated you." He thought maybe he heard a tiny intake of air. "I did. I thought…I told myself I was saving you but all I was doing was punishing myself for failing you, and you suffered all the damn fallout of my mistakes and I need to—"

"I gotta go," was all Sam said and he hung up.

"God damn it." Dean sat at the table, head resting on his clenched fists, barely hanging on to the phone. He couldn't help it, couldn’t rein it in. A tear or two got away from him before he sat up again, sniffling loudly. Once. Maybe twice. He wiped at his eyes, his nose. He put the phone down on the table, very gently, and stood. 

Tomorrow, he was going to go to work. After, he'd buy some dinner for him and Mom. Maybe watch a little TV with her. And then, he was gonna call Sam again. And again, and again, whatever it took.

=+=

He did. He called Sam every day, once or twice a day, sometimes more. It got to the point where he started hearing Jess hollering the minute Sam picked up, like she could tell by his face who it was on the phone. More than likely, she could. Dean got used to hearing a pissed off Jess in the background, whether Sam spoke or not. Sometimes Sam just hung up. Or hung up after cursing him out. Sometimes he just breathed silently on the line while Jess cussed him out until Dean finally hung up.

Sure, it hurt, but he kept at it. Sam was stubborn and could hold a grudge like Dad, but eventually, someday, he'd remember that once upon a time, he'd loved Dean, and he'd listen. 

In the meantime Dean just called, and he noted that the cops hadn't come to his door yet, so there was hope. Probably.

=+=

Dean was cautiously happy the day when Sam finally agreed to meet him at some coffee shop in town, a place called _Coffee Complex._ It sounded douchey to Dean, but Sam said it was his favorite, a place he was sure Dean would like.

Of course, when Dean stepped through the door and into the wood-paneled interior, he got why it had to be here. His engineer boots sounded unnaturally loud as they clunked across the white marble floors. He took in the little frou-frou lights hanging over spindly little tables without a booth in sight, and the way lace and tinted glass and little bud vases announced, _'you're way too poor and seriously underdressed to belong here'._ He understood that Sam hadn't thawed at all. In fact, he thought, perusing a menu board that boasted sandwiches that cost what he'd pay in a week for groceries, Sam had managed to make it pretty plain without a word how he was feeling about Dean. 

Dean selected a couple of Danishes, one for him and one for Sam because he was hopeful like that. The two plus the coffees about cleaned out what he had in his pocket. He glanced back out onto the street as he paid. He wondered how long Sam was going to make him sit here alone, contemplating the grease under his nails and worked into his pores. He yanked at the slightly frayed hem of his tee-shirt, and shook his head. This was fucked up of Sam, but not anything he didn't deserve.

Dean had been sitting at one of the spindly tables for a while before Sam came in, looking damn hot in skin-tight jeans and a pale blue button-up shirt. The sleeves were folded up, exposing arms that made Dean equally envious and kind of…twitchy. Made him uncertain whether he wanted arms like that himself, or maybe just wanted those arms around him….

Dean let himself look, for a few seconds—why not? He was done with lies and hiding and making everyone miserable, especially himself. Looking might be the most of Sam he'd ever have again in that way, but with any luck he could at least get him back as a brother. 

It did somehow feel better to admit that he missed being able to touch all that skin whenever he wanted….

Sam glanced his way, a look of boredom on his face. He held a single cup of coffee in his hand, which he tilted towards Dean in a sarcastic salute.

Dean watched him stroll over and sipped at his own, lukewarm, coffee. He pushed the cream and sugar-laced cup he'd bought for Sam when he first came in off to the side of the table. Sam's eyes flicked over it before coming to rest on Dean's cup. Sam might think his face was giving nothing away, but his eyes…they were burning, Dean noted, and he was pretty sure that it wasn't in a positive way. 

He sat down and gave a brisk single nod at Dean's greeting. 

"Hey, Sam…I bought some Danish too, but I got hungry and ate them. You wanna—" Dean said, but Sam stopped him. 

"Don’t bother; I'm not up for pretending we're—we're _friends._ I'm only here because you keep calling me, trying to…what? Apologize? Whatever the fuck your issue is, this all needs to stop. You're feeling guilty? Well, get this, 'big brother'—I don't _care._ You did what you did, and I survived. Hell, I thrived," Sam said, a nasty grin twisting his face. "Besides, we're even."

"What, even? What does that mean?"

"It means that time your girlfriend told you she had a conference to go to, which oddly enough coincided with one of mine, she was lying. _We_ were lying." Sam said, his voice low and intimate, like he was sharing a delicious secret that only Dean could understand. Dean's heart started hammering in his chest; his throat felt tight, his chest too full. And Sam, Sam sat there calmly, a crooked smirk twisting his lips. "Payback's a bitch," he said.

Dean pulled back, his hands sliding off the table. "You fucking slept with Carmen?" He struggled to keep his voice low—he didn't need the whole world in his business. "You cheated on Jess? Just to get back at me?"

"Yep. So, we done here?" Sam asked, as casually as if he was asking if Dean wanted seconds on coffee.

Dean stared at this man across from him in disbelief. He was stunned into stupidity by this…cold-hearted stranger smirking at him, without a trace of remorse for what he'd done, not a bit of guilt. Sam went to stand up, and Dean reached across the table and grabbed his shirt so hard the fabric creaked. "Sit the fuck down. Right now."

Sam huffed, but wary of Dean actually ripping his shirt off in public, he sat. Dean hesitated for a few seconds, trying to organize his racing thoughts. He eased off his grip on Sam's shirt, wasted a few moments watching Sam's elegant fingers stroke wrinkles out of the fabric, resettle buttons and…"Sam, okay, I get that what I did to you was so fucked up, but—"

"No, you _don't_ get it, you bastard," Sam hissed. "It wasn't what we did together—that was never wrong. It was what you did to me after, the things you did to make me feel like I was some kind of…of…pervert. And just when I finally felt some kind of balance again, trying to fall for fucking Rachel, what do you do? You spit all over it. You fucked me up, again. You want a reason why I hate you? That's it. You shoved me away and then—you _punished_ me for trying to stay away." 

Sam's sickly-white face was totally at odds with his cold, self-satisfied expression. Dean caught the way his hands were shaking before Sam tightened his hold on his cup. "So yeah, Dean, when I came all over your 'fiancé's' face, I felt…I felt…fucking _victorious!"_ Sam snarled. 

Dean jerked back, hands going up in an instinctive move to ward off danger. He thought, really thought that he was going to lose his breakfast. He'd done this; he'd made Sam into this, this—soulless bastard, this terrible human being. "I'm so fucking sorry," he started and Sam cut him off viciously.

"Screw your _"sorry"._ You can take it, gift wrap it, and shove it up your goddamn ass." 

Sam stood, his chair screeching backwards across the tiles. Dean's face burned as all the heads that had been turned in a pretense of not trying to listen in on their little drama all whipped in their direction. Dean sat for a few more moments, watching Sam disappear down the street before standing with a sigh. He flipped off the few faces still turned his way and strolled out, trying to radiate 'don't give a fuck'. With his cup. Place was pretentious as fuck, but he kinda liked the logo.

=+=

Dean stopped calling Sam after that. Not that he'd given up—he hadn't. He was just giving Sam a little space to think while Dean figured out what his next step was. He'd come up with something. He was going to get his brother back, because being without him like this…it was hell.

Dean shivered. Just the idea was horrible. It made his soul want to shrivel and die.

So, life went on as usual for a while. Work, home, work again, home again, broken up with occasional visits to Callahan's, where he could sit with a single beer followed by as many cokes as he could down and no one said a word, or dinner at Antonia's with Mom. A predictable, quiet, life—the same thing every day—and he loved it. It was…god, it was so good, knowing that he'd never have to wonder where he was going to sleep, or if he was going to eat, how he was going to make the money to do that. He was grateful Mom never asked what it was like when he'd been gone. He wasn't even sure he could tell her, his glitching memories supplied him with horrors that were just…unreal, impossible. He stopped, took a breath as he scanned the shelves full of boxes of noodles and bags of rice. He stared at them a little harder than he had to….

Life was good, but the only thing that kept it from being perfect was Sam.

Dean sighed, pushing the cart along to the next row, the thunk thunk of that one screwed up wheel getting on his nerves. Trust him to grab the fucked-up cart every time, damn it. His own fault—if he'd been a little more alert, Mom wouldn't have caught him and finagled him into doing the grocery shopping. "Two jarsa spaghetti sauce," he muttered to himself. His eyes roamed over rows and rows of sauces. He flicked a glance over all the healthy, non-fun, non-interesting crap in the cart—Mom and her insistence he eat better. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat, and blinked rapidly. Well, yeah, of course she was worried about the way he ate, worried about his health in general….

Maybe he should get fish instead of the hotdogs he'd planned to grill for dinner tonight. 

"Dean."

He froze. Fuck, out of all the people in the world, he had to run into the one he wanted to deal with the least. He turned slowly, not really sure if he should smile or…not. "Uh, hey. Jess. How's it…how's it going?"

"I think you have a petty damn good idea how it's going," she said, a glacier's worth of ice in her tone. "I don’t know what the hell is going on between you two lately, but it sucks. Sam's acting irrationally and it's because of you. It's that—that—sick _dependency_ you have with Sam—" 

Dean's heart leapt with horror. He desperately wanted to tell her to keep it down,for god's sake, but was terrified to draw any attention to what she said. Did she know something, or was she putting pieces together and getting…had Sam said something…? 

No, no, stupid. What went on, him and Sam, _the thing,_ it wasn't something you talked about idly, or really, at _all._ She didn't know anything, she was just pissed off at him for making waves in her life. Shit, not counting the last few weeks, he'd barely talked to Sam in the eight years that he'd moved out of Mom and Dad's, unless it was a drunk dial or a fight over something stupid. Unless she meant the calls lately. Or maybe she was just a pissed-off chick with an overactive imagination…. 

"And I blame that for all the crap we're going through. Are you doing this on purpose? Carmen left you, so Sam has to be alone too?" She squinted at him, a dawning look of suspicion turning her normally plush lips thin and pale. "Or. Or is this something else…?"

"What? What are you—what the hell? What?" Rational thought just flew off—his brain rattled around the inside of his skull like a hamster on a wheel. 

She stared at him. "I think…I think I get it now. You're sick, and I think Sam's so damaged by you that he doesn't even get _how_ damaged he is. Your whole family…" she shook her head and Dean started to get pissed off. There was nothing wrong with his family. He was the only damaged piece there. 

"You fucking leave my family out of this."

"That's why Carmen kicked you out, right? She finally got it. Does your mother—"

Dean pushed his cart out of the way and grabbed Jess' arm. He felt her startle and got a vicious satisfaction out of it. He let everything he was feeling show on his face, and Jess turned pale as a ghost. "I'm not kidding. You do anything to hurt my mom and you'll wish to god you never met us."

She was terrified—he could see it, feel it in her runaway pulse. He should let her go, he should apologize. This was wrong. He forced his fingers open, glancing down at the dark pink marks on her arm. Fuck. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. But I—"

"Don’t you even dare say you didn't mean it. You did. This is how you get because of Sam," she said, her voice a shaky treble. She rubbed her arm, keeping her eyes on Dean like he was going to snap and attack her, which Dean guess she had a right to. "That wasn't about your mom, you lying shit. _All_ of this has always been about Sam."

She backed away, eyes on him and Dean felt his face burn with shame. He very carefully avoided the eyes of other shoppers, but he finished what he'd started out to do, shopping for his mom. Loading the cart. He wasn't giving up, not on anything.

=+=

The thing about summer was, you couldn't wait all fuckin' winter for it to arrive, and then when it finally did, it hit like a hammer. A flaming hammer from hell. The shop was an oven, he was hot and tired and greasy with sweat. Dean stepped away from the car he was working on and grabbed a bottle of water from his bench. He took a deep gulp and grimaced as he swallowed. Shit. It'd been ice-cold a few minutes ago, now, not so much. He wiped his mouth and heaved a frustrated sigh.

The Mustang GT 500 he was working on was sweet, but she'd been a bitch from the get—nothing about this job had gone right. Parts had been hung up in shipping, and the parts he did get…Dean shook his head in disgust. Plus, his concentration was blown to shit, what with this thing with Sam. He'd almost sliced his damn hand open earlier in the day, sliding his hand over a part without paying attention to the rough edges. Then he'd spent way too much time on the phone, trying to explain to the client that the seats he wanted really did cost that much, and no, there was no cheaper alternative if he wanted it done right. He'd been about ready to sic Jim on him, but the jerk was Dean's private client, not the shop's client. The ass finally gave in, but not before Dean seriously considered telling him to collect his fucking car and never bring her back. 

Felt like he'd been pardoned by the governor when he left work at last.

He couldn't help smiling when he caught sight of Baby, parked under the little stand of trees that overhung the employee's lot at the back of the shop. Someone was standing next to her, hands on their hips and head thrust forward—oh shit.

Sam. And a mightily pissed off Sam. Even from across the lot Dean could tell. The way Sam stood practically shouted it. 

Seeing him unexpectedly startled a little grunt out of him. Dean stopped, not sure if he actually wanted to talk to him or _should_ talk to him. He heard his name spoken softly, coming from behind him. He turned and there was…Sam. But not his brother, it was that other Sam, the one who needed a shave and about ten years worth of sleep. He smiled, soft and sad, his eyes roaming over Dean until they met Dean's eyes. Hazel eyes widened in surprise. Dean couldn't hear him, but it was no trick to read his lips—"Dean, hey, hey—" and then suddenly his real brother was in his face. 

"You leave Jess alone, you bastard. She told me how you assaulted her. You're lucky I'm not calling the cops on your sorry ass." 

"I didn't come at her, she came at _me,_ and then she thought she could come at Mom. And…okay, I know that was out of line, grabbing her like that. But you let her know, Mom is out of this. What's going on is between you and me. She wants to take a shot at someone, it better be at _me."_

Sam stepped back, eyes boring into Dean's. The look on his face…like he was dissecting insects… "You're not just saying that, are you? You really care about her."

"Mom?" What the hell was with Sam? How could he even question what Mom was to him…well, yeah. Dean guessed Sam did have a basis for disbelief. "Fuck yeah, I care about her, of course I do. Mom is…Mom."

Sam hummed, eyes still roaming over Dean as though he had answers written on his skin. "Jess has been going through some things. We..." He stopped and frowned. "What the hell am I doing, talking to you? Shouldn't tell you anything."

Dean's heart kicked into overdrive. "Hey, tell you what Sammy— _Sam._ I'm out for the day. Whataya say to coffee? Or, or drinks, or."

Sam held his hands up, his face going hard; he was shaking his head when Dean got it—right. Alcohol, Sam, never a good mix. "Okay," Dean said quickly, "vanilla cokes, how 'bout that? I found a place that makes great vanilla cokes, remember how much we loved them…I'll even treat." Dean chanced a smile, and counted it a victory when Sam didn't try to rip his head off his shoulders. Baby steps, right?

Sam hesitated, dropped his hands, and Dean swore there might have been a brief flicker of a smile on his brother's mug. Maybe. Dean figured he was probably fooling himself. "Okay," Sam said. "Okay. Just one. And I'll buy my own."

All Dean could do was nod in return, not wanting to spook Sam by saying something stupid. This right here, Sam agreeing to go, wasn't just a baby step. In the history of Sam and Dean, this was practically a leap off a cliff. Hell, this was a way bigger capitulation than he'd ever expected at this point. He'd have guessed it would've taken one, two years before he could reasonably expect Sam not to sucker punch him. 

At that thought, he put a slightly larger distance between them. Sam had really fucking long arms.

=+=

They stopped outside a bar, a slightly shabby looking place, whose double doors were topped with a bright red sign reading _Callahan's Saloon,_ and under that, in smaller script, it read _drop-ins welcome_

Sam frowned at the sign and then at Dean. Dean shrugged. "I don't know. But it's a great place."

"You said no bars."

Dean eyed Sam, thinking that even at six foot forever, he could still be a whiny nine year old. "No, dude, I said I knew a place that made great vanilla cokes." He took a breath. He was about to skirt territory that made him uneasy, talking about stuff he really didn't understand thanks to, to his bouncing brain and his fucked-up life..."Look, Mike knows me, he knows about my, uh, my shit. He keeps an eye on me, and I…I keep coming back here because before I blew my life to hell, this was a good place for me to be. Mike, he's real forgiving. Anyway, we didn't come here for me to talk about my stuff, right?"

Sam eyed him uneasily, not ready to believe but Dean could see he wasn't ready to leave either. "I guess. Listen, if there's one moment I don't feel this is going well…."

"No, dude, I totally get it. And you should leave, yes. If you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable, you split."

Inside was considerably darker and cooler than outside. They stood in the doorway for a second, Dean to let his eyes adjust to the suddenly dimmer light, and Sam to scope the place out for meth-addicted hookers hawking 40s and blow. Satisfied there were none, or that they were hiding, he let Dean lead him to a table in the corner. Dean handed him a menu and said, "Sally makes great sandwiches. They've got burgers and onion rings too, you still like onion rings, right, Sam?"

Sam made a noise that might have been yes or might have been no, than practically hid behind the menu. They ended up with two burgers and an order of onion rings apiece and beers, though Sam huffed at that. Dean rolled his eyes. Sam sure didn't ask where his coke was and besides, he'd already told him one beer was his limit. 

The burgers were pretty good, the onion rings even better, thick slices of onion, the batter light and crisp. He could tell Sam was working hard not to show how much he enjoyed them. Hell, he had the boy's number, always had. He had a brief flash of young Sam, grinning at him over a plate of rings, his feet tucked between Dean's and his eyes…Dean coughed. Hoped he wasn't blushing.

"So…So, you mentioned Jess? Mom was kind of worried…" Dean was uncertain about going on. He and Sam weren't exactly sharing'n'caring kinda guys and he had no idea what it was Sam really wanted to say. He chewed on an onion ring and watched Sam decide what to say. It should be weird, he thought, sitting with Sam like this, knowing he'd screwed his girl. Ex-girl. But really, he felt…nothing. Not anger, not sadness…it was like Carmen was a stranger to him, and the most he felt was a faint disapproval that Sam would cheat on Jess. 

"Jess and I aren't…things are not so great right now. Lately. She seems to think…" Sam stopped and stared at his hands. "It's too quiet in here."

Dean cocked an eyebrow at Sam, but kept his mouth shut. He headed over to the huge old-fashioned juke box parked against the wall behind them. He dropped a handful of quarters in and punched a few buttons. The Stones started singing and he got back to the table just as Mick was singing, _"—don't care and I've been wandering, I've seen Greece and--"_

Sam huffed softly as Dean sat. "Well, it's not so quiet now. Good choice." Dean smiled back, and they sat for a few seconds and it was…okay. "She knows," Sam said and knocked Dean right out of that comfortable place he'd been headed for. He rocked back, ice-water rushing down his spine. 

"I didn't tell her anything," Sam said. "I never even hinted…but she knew anyway. The worst thing is I don't even care. Can you imagine? All those years, arranging our lives around each other, and I just don't care. Fuck. Maybe I should be drunk for this. Oh, shit, I'm sorry, that was…I'm sorry."

Dean just stared at Sam, trying to understand what he was saying. Hoping Sam didn't mean…. 

"I loved Jess. I loved her for a long time. But thing is, I failed her. Way before that thing with, that time I, when, when…"

Relief flooded Dean. Sam meant…not what he'd thought; he meant that Jess knew about Carmen. He seemed to be hung up on that part so Dean helped him out. "That time you fucked my girl, gotcha."

Sam flinched like Dean had hauled off and punched him in the face, and Dean couldn't help feeling a little spark of satisfaction at that. "Yeah, that." Sam hung his head for a moment. When he lifted it again, he was staring at some point past Dean's shoulder. He inhaled, a long and shuddery intake of air. Let go at last with a watery chuckle. "So. Here's the thing. I hate my job, I feel trapped by my girlfriend, Mom treats me like a time bomb liable to go off at any minute, and I'm miserable. If you were looking for proof you destroyed me, then congratulations. I don't think I'll ever be happy again."

Sam sounded defeated, half-broken and ground down by life and it was all Dean's stupid fault. His eyes burned, he had to swallow a time of two before his voice was steady enough to speak. "Fuck, Sammy. No, I don't want that for you. I think…I think I just went crazy at some point and took everyone with me. Tried to. I don't know what I was thinking then, but I know what I want now." 

Sam looked about a hot minute from losing it, and Dean wanted to get him home, or into the car at least. "Hey. Come on, Sam. Let's go."

Dean stopped at the bar and handed Mike a couple of bills. 

"Y'okay, Winchester?

"Yeah, Mike, I'm good. Well, getting there."

Mike nodded. "You'll make it, Winchester. Now beat it."

Dean grinned and headed for the door. By the time he was on the sidewalk, Sam was already walking away. "Hey!" he called out. "Let me give you a ride, c'mon."

Sam fidgeted on the sidewalk. "I—I don’t think I want to get in the car with you." 

If Sam had stabbed him, it would have hurt less. He dredged up a smile anyway. "I'll take you back to your place…it can't be that long a drive…uhm. Where is it?"

The bitchface Sam gave him was kind of awe-inspiring. "You don't know where—no, you know what? Never mind. I don't want to go there anyway." He hesitated, gave Dean a less ambitious version of the Face. "Where's your car?"

"Half block that way. Take you to Mom's?"

Sam nodded—they were quiet on the walk back to the car, and the drive back to Mom's house was deafeningly quiet. Dean would never have imagined that silence could be so…so… _silent,_ but Sam had a talent. 

Mom let them in, not saying a word besides the smallest barely-there lift of her eyebrow. Dean shrugged, following Sam into the house and up the stairs. He turned back to his mom, and shrugged again. She just watched them go, a look of confusion with a touch of hope on her face.

He walked down the hall towards his room just in time to catch Sam dropping to the bed. Dean's bed. He looked up at Dean and said quietly, "I quit my job. Just walked on out. Looks like I'm following in my big brother's footsteps." 

"Gotta say…m'not exactly a great role model."

"Role model," Sam snorted. "Yeah." He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, they were so red they looked raw. "I'm tired," he said, lying down, and Dean stepped closer. He lowered his hand, but Sam tensed, so he stroked the pillow case instead. 

"Sleep, Sammy." And Sam let out a little sigh and closed his eyes again. His breathing slowed, deepened, and he was fast asleep in what seemed like seconds. 

Dean crouched by the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hands. "Fuck, what the fuck. What a mess. What a fuckin' mess."

 

Sam (and Dean)  
Sam woke up in Dean's bed, his face smashed into Dean's pillow, blanketed by a huge, overwhelming sense of well-being. He was rolled up in Dean's sheets, and he felt fucking safe. He blinked awake, the sense of content sheering off as he surfaced. 

_Dean. Fuck._ He was in Mom's house, in Dean's bed and Dean was…where? He swung his legs to the side and his feet collided with something soft and warm but not Bonesy.

"Watch out, fucker, y'most took my kidneys out."

"What are you doing here?"

"Uh…my room?" Dean was looking at him, all sarcastic eyebrows and lop-sided bedhead—well, floorhead. He was curled up on the floor next to the bed, wrapped in a comforter and holding a pillow.

"Why didn't you wake me up? My room's right next door."

"You were sleeping so good, I couldn’t." He yawned, when he got up, Sam dropped his eyes. Dean's boxers were twisted a bit, hiked up on one side and when he bent to grab his make-shift bed, Sam could see his dick swing against the loose, wash-worn fabric. His fingers twitched, and his dick gave an interested lurch. He slid one of the pillows over onto his lap.

"M' going to the bathroom," Dean muttered and staggered off without looking back. Sam was relieved. He'd hate to have to explain why he was clutching a pillow to his lap. Knowing Dean he wouldn't have to and the man would tease the everlovin' shit out of him….

Or no, Sam guessed he wouldn't at that. They didn't really do that kind of thing anymore, did they? Just because Dean had let him sleep in his bed didn't mean anything. Even if he'd stayed in the room with him. 

Or maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe Dean really did want to get to know him again. It seemed like he did. All those calls and texts and being nice to Mom again. Being helpful and patient. Not drinking, but this time, really not drinking. Sam sighed. It would be good, to get to know him again. To be brothers again. For a long time, that's been all he really wanted, just to at least talk to Dean without being shoved aside or laughed at or worse, pitied. He could live without ever touching him again—he had for ten years, right? But to have Dean smile at him again like he'd done today….

Sam bent his face into the pillow to hide his suddenly full eyes. He wanted that. He'd never not wanted it. Dean was the one. Yes, fuck yes; he wanted to be brothers again, friends. 

That was it, the big truth. He wanted Dean because he'd never stopped wanting him, even when he'd forced himself to hate him. Sam knew there was this thing about him, this thing that was crazily competitive, stubborn and more than a bit ruthless. And when Dean pushed him away, Sam made sure to punish him for it, way more than Dean had set out to punish him. Sam had taken that punishment and turned it back at Dean a thousandfold—made it into torture. 

He got out of bed and put his clothes back on. Thought about Jess and how she'd reminded him of Dean in the beginning, even looked sort of like him in a way. That was enough for him back then, the way she was, the way she loved him. Though eventually, it'd got…thin. And then Dean came home and broke his heart all over again and he'd never even been able to flaunt his gorgeous, successful, smart, hot girlfriend in Dean's face. Because he'd brought home a girl of his own. 

But cracks showed fast, and Carmen started depending on Sam to handle Dean and then…he'd done a shit lousy thing. And spent the next year trying to blame it on her, while knowing damn well she'd simply been caught in the crossfire of Sam's self-destructive desire to break Dean. 

He got up and moved swiftly across the hall into his own room and locked the door. He cleared a space on his bed. His room was inexplicably full of…stuff. He dropped down on the edge of his bed, curled over himself, and let out things he'd been holding in for almost ten years. He cried for what he'd done to the people in his life, his self-loathing, his guilt. His horror at his mother ever discovering the kind of person he'd become. The guilt he felt for manipulating someone into a terrible relationship. The way he'd felt so justified in hurting Dean's girlfriend for what Dean had done. The way he'd shoved her aside afterward because the guilt was just too much. That was another door he'd slammed shut, another dozen bricks in the wall around his feelings. She was right, he was a faithless bastard. A soulless, fucking robot. 

There was a knock at his door, a couple, then a pounding and Dean calling his name. He heard his mom, a hissed, frantic argument, and then Dean was saying, "Sam, come out when you're ready. We'll be here." Then silence.

=+=

Sam walked into the apartment. Jess was sitting on the couch, an open book in her lap. Soft music was playing, and she looked content, relaxed. She looked up at him over the back of the couch, her face smooth and blank.

"I quit my job," he said. 

She blinked. _"What?"_

"I quit my job. So." He shrugged. "It wasn't…me."

"You mean it wasn't Dean. Oh my god. I knew it; I knew the minute you started getting those calls it was over. And I let it be, all these years, I let it be. I should have…" She flew upright, shaking in anger, her hands clenching her book like it was a sword and she was trying to decide whether to stab him or cut off his head. "What now, the big make up? Back to being in each other's pockets? How about this, how about you call your mom and ask her if she has room for one more—loser!"

She slammed the book down and stalked out of the room. Sam stood there, smiling vaguely at the view from their living room window. Better call a hotel, find a room. Think about everything and—everything.

He packed a bag and left without speaking to Jess; she'd disappeared into their bedroom as soon as he'd finished packing, passing him in the hall without a word. He looked around with a sigh and left the apartment. He drove the truck to the nearest decent hotel, checked in and collapsed onto the bed. He was just too fucking tired. 

In seconds, he dropped into dreams—no, he pitched headfirst into nightmares.

_"Stop," she hissed, looking over her shoulder towards the closed door. "We're in your brother's room!"_

_"So what, he hasn't slept here in years. Come on, nobody cares where you are, least of all him. If he's even still conscious, he's drunk off his mind." He pressed her against the wall, nudged her legs slowly apart. He settled between them, his hardon nudging against the mound he could trace the shape of, covered by her thin, nearly translucent sundress. If she didn't want this, she wouldn't have been flaunting it all day…._

_He ground down a little, feeling soft flesh give as she gasped. He rocked forward harder._

_"Stop it, damn it, you're drunk…" but she was spreading her legs, tilting her shoulders back against the wall. He leaned away from her and she gasped again, clawed at his hips. Trying to bring them closer together._

_He smirked, unzipped and pulled his pants down, the thick shape of his dick stretching his underwear tight over the curve. He pressed back against her, both of them groaning now. He ground down again, the pressure opening her lips, rubbing fabric against her clit. He kissed her, deep and aggressive, rocking harder and harder. Her legs were wide now—he reached under her and palmed her ass, squeezing until she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips. Her dress slid up, freeing her hips._

_He was right against her wet heat, and he had to feel it, feel how she was dripping for him. He wanted to know he was driving her crazy…he bet he could make her beg for it._

_He hooked a thumb in one side of his briefs and yanked down until his dick popped free. He didn’t even have to nudge her, she grabbed him and he was skating over her soaking pussy, rubbing right into her slick clit and she was grinding, trying to get more friction—"Shit, yeah," he whispered, "Just like that, c'mon…"_

_He bit his lip, hard, the pain helping him to slow down…he had something distinct in mind and slipping up inside her, hot as the idea was, was not the plan. She was almost bouncing against him now, pulling him back—she was whining, he could hear the combination of heat and frustration bleeding out in her voice. He kept knocking against her, again and again, right on point, until finally she threw her head back and let out a long, high-pitched whine. He could feel her trembling against him; they separated and there was a small damp spot on the tissue thin fabric of her dress. He pressed his thumb there, rubbing hard even as she pulled back with a hiss. "Stop."_

_His dick was painfully hard, bobbing with each deep breath he drew in, panting, fucked up and turned on like he hadn't been with anyone else since his brother, and it didn't have a thing to do with her._

_She put her legs back down and reached out for him but he put his hand on her head, pressed down until she was on her knees.. She swallowed him up, looking for all the world like giving head was her most favorite thing in the world…it was hot and wet and filthy, and when he was just at the peak of tipping over, he pulled free of her mouth and came hard, spilling all over her chin and cheeks, letting it dribble down her neck. He wiped the tip across the bridge of her nose, smiling blearily…"Look at you…fuck, yeah…slut…"_

_For a long moment she looked shattered, mouth open in a pained O, then she was glaring, wiping spunk off her face and sneering as she wiped it across his chest._

_"Hey, damn it, don't do—"_

_He heard Dean calling for Carmen, looked out the window and saw Dean in the yard below._

_When this had happened in real life, what happened next was that Dean stumbled off the deck, fell into the grass and passed out, dead to the world, while Sam tucked his dick back in his pants and smirked at Carmen; walked out of the room feeling…righteous. Vindicated. Victorious._

_Now in Sam's dream, Dean turned and looked up to the window; his brows drew together and Sam knew he'd seen him, and a lightning bolt of horror shattered the dream—threw him, panting and nauseous, back into the real world._

Sam clutched the sheets, trying to slow his breathing. Carmen and he hadn't exactly had some kind of affair, but they might as well have. He hadn't exactly told Dean the truth but, it wasn't that much of a lie, was it? 

He hid out in the hotel for a few days before Mom sent Dean to find him and bring him home.


	5. Chapter 5

**Mary and Her Boys**

The sun had risen on a morning that had to be taking place in an alternate universe, Mary thought. She pulled her robe closed and just…stared. 

It was amazing; it was so surprising that it stopped her in her tracks. Her boys. Sitting calmly at the kitchen table together. Not fighting. Not cruelly, coldly ignoring each other. No one was locked behind a door, no one was fighting tears or looking for her to mediate.

There was coffee, and waffles, and…peace. 

Sure, there was some strain there, they weren't quite in sync. Sam drew back, just a bit, when Dean passed him, and Dean's eyes went somewhat tight when he noticed it but…in times before Dean's…weird round-about, breakfast had sometimes ended with the table being flipped—including that last time, when pieces of china and glassware had flown everywhere and Sam's hands had ended wrapped around Dean's neck. Dean had had the bruises for days afterwards; Sam had sliced his hand open on a shard of glass. He'd bled frightening amounts, all the while blaming it on Dean and not letting her fix it. Dean…Dean had lain on the floor in his brother's blood and said, "Look Sammy, still bruising me, still got me on my back—"

Sam had kicked him in the ribs and fled. She'd had nightmares about that morning for the longest time after, dreams she'd never repeat to anyone. 

And now...

Now it looked like they were working their way through one of Dean's breakfasts, Dean pretending to read the paper while dropping bits of sausage and waffle to Sam's dog; Sam watching them, rolling his eyes and smiling, at least a little, enough to satisfy Dean, and her. 

More than damn good enough for her.

She sighed, hating to break this peace, but she had the feeling that there were things to talk about, and that time was better now than later. "Good morning, boys."

"Morning, Mom. There's coffee, and did you know Sam can make waffles?"

She smiled—yes, actually she did. It stung just a little that this was a new discovery for Dean. Sam caught her eyes over Dean's head, and he silently begged her not to do anything to break this gossamer thin bubble of détente. Not a word would come from her; she wanted it as much as Sam did.

Coffee and waffles passed back and forth, and finally she said, "So, Samuel John. A _hotel?"_

"Well. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, both of you…Jess and I are taking a break. And…I wanted to try and figure out what I was doing, I guess."

She flicked her eyes towards Dean and saw, just for a moment, a look of…relief? Hope…? But it was gone before she could blink and then he was just looking appropriately sad for Sam, so much so that she wondered if she'd actually seen that look or had imagined it. As for herself, she was sad for the both of them. Jessica had tried so hard, she really had. She'd made herself part of the family, she'd loved John….

But she'd never loved, not even half-way liked, Dean—ever. That might have been a mistake on her part, because even when Sam wouldn't stay in the same room longer than a minute with Dean it had always been a mistake to openly show dislike of his brother. That had been reserved exclusively for Sam. But now, Sam seemed to have taken a step back towards Dean. Things were bound to change. She sat at her kitchen table, swamped by cabbage roses and ceramic cows and looking at her boys, once again on their own…Sam shot Dean a quick look, a look that was speculative, hesitant. Hopeful. 

Mary was overwhelmed with the idea that finally, peace had come back to the Winchester family, something she'd hoped for, but she'd come to believe would never happen. Blinking hard, she got up and went out on the deck with the dog and finished her coffee. 

A few minutes later, Dean sat next to her, his own cup steaming in the cool, soon to be hot, morning air. "Hey."

She smiled and dropped her hand on his knee, rubbing it briefly before concentrating on the back yard again. 

"So…that's rough for Sam, him and Jess, I mean. It's not like me and Carmen, that was," he shrugged, "different. They really had a future…" his voice trailed off and he stared at the horizon, too. "Anyway, I'm sorry for him."

Mary sighed. "Me too. I really liked the girl. She only wanted Sam to be happy." 

Dean eyed her, looking less than convinced. "Yeah? I don’t know, she seemed like…she wanted Sam to be happy on her terms. But what do I know? I hardly knew the girl."

"And made sure you never did get to know her."

"Well, wasn't like Sam made it easy. He didn't want us to get on. Made sure I wouldn’t get to know her, not like he got to know Carmen—"

There was a hiss behind him and Mary swung around. Sam was in the doorway, looking a lot like that little Sam of long ago. He turned away from the door and Dean jumped up, "Sorry, Mom, be right back!"

She closed her eyes and counted to…until she got tired of counting. She might as well make room in the garage for the stuff that was cluttering up Sam's room. His room had rather turned into a storage room, completely by accident. It just accumulated stuff that had no home anywhere else. "Oh my," she murmured to herself. Sam was going to be very much put out by that. She could hear him now— _"Dean's room is perfect, but mine looks like it’s a hoarder's starter kit."_

Well, there was no way Sam was staying in that hotel. It was a waste of money when he could be staying here at home. She got up, having made up her mind about Sam and Dean and life in general. She was going to enjoy having her boys with her as long as she could. Everything else would have to take care of itself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Dean**

Sam was standing in the hallway when Dean made it up the stairs. He eased up the last stair, and whispered, "Sam? I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that how it sounded."

"Yeah. Well, I don’t blame you if you did mean it. There's shitty, and then there's _shitty._ I shouldn’t have taken a page out of your book."

"Okay, um, wow, that hurt. But I deserved that. I mean, I did shittier things to you than you ever did to me. I mean, you started out just trying to ignore me before…things escalated."

"Escalated. Yeah." Sam turned around. "So, can we—can we agree not to tally up all the hurts, maybe—go past what happened and start new? Can we be something like friends again?"

"We can," Dean said decisively. "We can be brothers again." He held his hand out—fuck, he wanted to snatch Sam up, squeeze the crap out of him and never, ever let him go again. But right now, it was probably smarter to just go with a handshake. 

Sam nodded, took a step forward and took Dean's outstretched hand. They shook, and Dean fought hard as he could to keep from grinning like a loon, to keep from pulling Sam in close. This was…man, this was more than enough, for now.

 

Days flowed along like smoothly, like a deep, wide river; work, home, work, but now when he came home, Sam was there. Not only there, but as the days passed, he seemed to look forward to seeing Dean. He stayed in the kitchen instead of stalking out of the room, he even smiled, said hello. Asked Dean how his day went, while Mom stood to the side and beamed at the both of them. Geez. 

Not everything was fine—there were some small problems he was experiencing, but nothing he wanted to bother Mom or Sam about, nothing he couldn't handle. Just, occasionally he got headaches. And this weird sort of…pain, in his arms, shoulders. Actually, they hurt so bad sometimes that it was hard not to…to break something. There were these annoying dizzy spells he'd get, but they didn't come too often, mostly happened on days he hadn't had much to eat or drink…he got so busy sometimes he forgot.

But the weirdness that topped all other weirdness was Sam. Not his Sam…but that strange, worn-out, ground-down Sam, who was showing up more often. Sort of quietly ghosting along in his footsteps like…like…a ghost. Dean was most worried by that. Not that he was afraid of that Sam—not at all. There wasn't anything scary about the guy. In fact, Dean liked him a lot. There was something so soft and sad in his eyes whenever Dean caught him looking. There was something in the way he smiled, so sweet, kind of shy…it really was too bad he was some kind of hallucination because that Sam seemed to like him right back.

=+=

Dean woke up slowly, weak morning light making the walls of his room shimmer, the grays and blues making it look like they were underwater. It reminded him of the lake, and Dad, and fishing too damn early in the morning. How Sam used to bitch about getting up so early but bitch too if he got left. Sam. Dean shoved deeper into the blankets as warmth filled him, leaving him loose and content…it shifted, grew pooling lower.

He remembered Sam pulling him by the hand, deep into the woods, dark under the thick tree branches, the air thick with the scent of pine. Sam, dropping to his knees. Dean drifted in a sea of memories, pictured Sam's pretty little mouth. How it curved in a smile so sweet and totally at odds with what was happening. Dean tried to relive how it felt, Sam's mouth—wet, hot and silky-smooth inside. He shoved his sleep pants down, imagined Sam's lips tightening on him, his tongue dancing around the crown of his dick. The back of Sam's throat fluttering around him—Dean stroked himself until he was shuddering and coming as quietly as he could. 

"Oh shit…." He lay there a bit until the come slicking his fingers was gummy and cold. "Ew." He wiped his hand on the inside of his pants. "Shower time," he muttered and yanked a pair of shorts out of the laundry basket Mom had parked in his room. 

 

He was coming out of the bathroom, scrubbing a towel over his wet hair and minding his own business when he ran into Sam, hard enough that they rebounded into opposite walls. They stood there staring at each other—Dean going hot and red-faced considering he'd not only almost knocked his brother down the stairs, he'd also just jerked off to him not ten minutes ago, Sam going pink for no reason Dean could see. He debated slipping the towel around his waist because he felt weird standing in the hall in just his boxers. But if he did, then he'd look like some kinda wuss embarrassed to be seen in his underwear. Family didn’t care about that. He twitched the waistband around—they fit weird, felt odd. He looked down, wondering if he'd fucked them up in the wash. 

Oh. 

These definitely were not his boxers—these things cost more than the whole six pack of Hanes that he usually bought. Which of course meant he was standing half-naked in the hallway wearing Sam's underwear. 

_Fuck._

Dean shivered and prayed to not get even slightly perked up—prepared himself for an explosion but Sam didn't say anything, just stared at Dean's feet, cheeks practically glowing pink. 

"Looks like, ah, Mom…laundry mix-up…" Sam shrugged. 

Dean shrugged back. It was kind of cute, the way Sam blushed.

"It's, uh…I don't mind." Sam stammered.

"Dude," Dean chuckled. "I can't wear your freaky boxers. They're all—" Dean was going to say too big, but fuck that. "—freaky."

"I don’t mind," Sam repeated. "Oh, I mean. I mean…" he shrugged again, and that blush painted all the area from his cheeks to his neckline and maybe lower a vibrant red. 

Dean managed to swallow a laugh and headed for his room. Seriously, he wasn't about to wear his little brother's underwear. Which despite being just a bit—a barely noticeable bit—too big, were incredibly comfortable, he had to admit.

He was almost to his room when he heard Sam say something and nearly walked into the door. It sounded like Sam said, "I like it," but no way in hell was he about to ask Sam what he'd actually said. That way, he could pretend he'd heard right. 

He was leaning against his door, hands over his face and marveling at how truly stupid his life could sometimes be. A knock at the door tanked his wildly circling thoughts. "Yeah?"

"It's me. I'm—ah—I'm going for a run."

"Oh-kay."

"Do you? You. Run." 

Dean opened the door and eyed Sam curiously. He wasn't sure if that had been a command or an observation. Turned out it was a question.

"Would you like to, um. Go with? Me?"

"Yeah, sure—but you better ask Bonesy if he minds someone horning in on your run," he said, grinning and pleased out of all proportion to the question. Sam gave him a small smile back.

"I don’t see that being a problem," Sam said. "He has appalling lack of taste—he likes you."

Normally, that would've hurt, and normally, he'd come back with some dig designed to cut deep, but the look in his brother's eyes was so close to the look that Old Sam guy graced him with…"'Course he does. He's a smart dog."

The run was great, even if Dean ended up having to beg Sam and his dog to stop before he lost a lung. They flopped back in the grass off the side of the trail, Sam gulping down a bottle of water that he split with Bonesy, and Dean drinking a coffee Sam bought him and hadn't spit in. Dean knew that for sure—he'd watched Sam buy it. 

They sat side by side on the thick grass, Sam's dog spread over his lap and snoring gently. It was perfect, Dean thought. The best morning he'd had in a long, long time. He drank his coffee, leaning slightly into the yard of distance between the two of them and listened to Sam talk quietly about his plans for his new life, about resumes sent and phone calls made. Sam had made up his mind, was cutting his loses and preparing to move on to the next part of his life. It didn't hurt. Not too much. 

Hey, at least they were talking, right?

=+=

Friday came with the expectation that they were going to do something as a family, but turned into ladies' movie night out for Mom and a few of her friends, and 'guys night in' for Sam and him. Which was fine as far as Dean was concerned. He had a feeling it was fine with Mom, too. She'd come to trust that when she left the house, all the furniture would be upright and whole and that there'd be no blood to shampoo out of the carpet when she returned, so that was progress. Sam suggested a movie and maybe pizza, and Dean took that as another olive branch extended. They squabbled good-naturedly about what film to watch before they settled on _Smokin' Aces,_ because, and Dean was surprised that Sam agreed, it was full of explosions and gunfights and hot women _and_ hot men.

The movie cranked up and Dean kept sneaking looks at Sam. Hunh. He had no idea why it had never occurred to him that Sam might be bi…kind of dumb not to, really. It was sort of egotistical to imagine Sam had only ever been attracted to him. Dean sternly ignored the little voice inside that whined and bitched that it should have been only him. 

When the knock came at the door, Dean tossed Sam his wallet and headed into the kitchen for plates. "My treat, but pay the guy for me, yeah?"

"Okey-dokey." Sam grabbed the wallet of out of the air—Dean took a moment to appreciate the grace with which Sam snagged it before leaving him to it. 

When Dean came out, the pizza boxes were stacked on the table and Sam was standing by the couch, staring at something in his hand. It was that picture that Dean had been carrying around with him for…years, Dean thought. Ever since he first left home. 

Sam's fingers moved gently over it and Dean knew just what he was feeling—how time and handling had worn the photo's edges thin and soft as felt, how Dean's fingers had permanently marked the surface of it, and folding it had cracked it down the middle—a picture of Sam and him taken at one of Sam's soccer matches. Sam held it like it was precious, looking down at the picture thoughtfully. When he looked up and caught Dean watching him, he smiled. "I meant to ask you, Dean, where Mom put all your trophies and stuff—there's nothing left in your room."

"I burned them," Dean said and felt a kind of shame that he hadn’t felt back then. "I didn’t deserve that stuff, any of it," he said when Sam gasped in dismay. Dean stopped, frowned. "I…I guess I felt like that then…."

"And now?" Sam asked, not a trace of censure in his tone. 

"Now, I feel like," he hesitated, trying to figure out how best to put what he was feeling, but finally just said, "I want to fix this. I want my brother, my best friend, back." 

Sam stared at the picture, stroked it softly before slipping it back in the wallet, and handing it to Dean. "Yeah. Me too."

Dean knew better than to push it—Sam could be a stubborn shit at the weirdest moments. They grabbed slices, popped the top on their sodas, and settled back to watch, both of them in their traditional places on the old couch. Dean was too aware of what had happened on long ago summer nights right there on that couch, and he was pretty sure Sam was too. 

Later that night when they went to bed, Sam stopped Dean before he went into his room, hugged him, quickly, a little stiff and a bit awkwardly but when he let go and stepped back, he was smiling. Dean slept like a baby that night.

=+=

It was the end of the month and Mom was gone for the weekend on her monthly 'Girl's Cultural Outing', which Mom claimed was trips to museums or concerts or independent films, boring stuff like that. However, Dean was pretty sure what it _really_ meant was that Mom and Aunt Gwen and the cousins would be splitting bottles of wine and eating cheesecake straight out the box, probably while watching soft-core porn, or whatever chicks sliding into senior citizen-hood did together when no one was looking.

Without Mom and her ever-expanding list of Stuff-To-Do around to bug him, Dean was enjoying a well deserved sleep-in. Not to mention he'd somehow rated a rare Saturday morning off…well, he planned to enjoy this to the hilt. He snuggled deeper into his pillow, wrapped the blanket around his head and swam around in a deliciously warm, floaty, half-sleep until something brushed his forehead, flicked across his cheekbone. _Gross, fuckin' fly or something._ He grimaced and wrinkled his nose, hoping to make it fly away but it came back again and again—drifting over his cheek, his forehead, and then it went too far and landed on his lip. He almost knocked himself out slapping his mouth, but c'mon— _flies_ —disgusting things. 

Someone chuckled; Dean heard his name, drawled low and deep, a note of teasing to it that made him open one eye. 

"Oh, Dee-ean." Warm breath brushed against his ear, long fingers skated gently across his cheek. Fucking Sam fucking around with him, not damn flies. Dean felt his face flush, felt the heat run right down his neck…his eyes snapped open and there was Sam's giant face, so close he was blurry and out of shape. 

"Hi, you awake?" Sam asked, full of innocence. Well, full of something, at least. Sam was on his knees at the side of the bed, bent over with his elbows on the mattress, nearly cheek to cheek with Dean. 

"Well, now I am," Scowling, he pushed Sam away. It served him right, screwing around in the morning like that.

"Sorry." Dean doubted that very much—Sam didn't look the slightest bit sorry at all. "I was having a bad dream and it woke me up," Sam said.

Dean yawned wide, scrubbed his face, before dragging both hands through his hair. "Dude, you do realize that you’re way too big to be sneaking in my room 'cause you’re scared, right?" he grumbled.

Sam's eyes went from fond to chilly, his smile dropped off and he started to back away, still on his knees. "Yeah, sure, I was being stupid anyway." He started to get to his feet, but Dean grabbed his arm. 

"I'm _kidding,_ man. Stay—please? You know what a fuckin' bitch I am when I first wake up."

Sam hesitated, still frowning, but let Dean pull him back onto the bed. He stretched out on top of the blankets next to Dean, effectively trapping Dean in place—he might as well have been wearing a flannel straight-jacket for all he could move. _Oh well._ After a minute or two, Dean said, "So…tell me about the dream. "

Sam shrugged. "Seems kinda silly now. It was me standing in the ocean. There were manta rays, like, flopping and flying all over, right into the sky. They were trying to pull me down underwater; they kept calling me the Manta Ray King." 

Dean tried to smother giggles, and Sam elbowed him. "Stop it, Dean, those rays were scary; I didn’t want to be their king—I didn't want to rule down in the ocean all alone with the manta rays."

Between the image of Sam sitting on a throne under the ocean, wearing a little sea-shell crown, and the pouty face he was currently aiming at Dean, Dean flat out laughed, laughed so hard, he could barely breathe—he almost missed the sound of Sam's own laughter.

"Oh, it's on now, asshole!" Sam faked a growl and launched himself at Dean, dragging him out from under the covers. 

They rolled all over the bed, wrestling and cursing, until they flipped off the edge. Sam ended up under Dean, still grinning. It was such a wide, bright, uncomplicated grin that Dean couldn't help but smile back.

Both grins faded when they realized the position they were in—Dean blanketing Sam, Sam's long legs flanking  
Dean's hips. Sam sucked in a huge breath—his chest hair tickled Dean's smooth chest with the sudden movement, it teased Dean's nipples. They pebbled up, tingling and tight, only a massive amount of willpower kept him from rubbing himself against Sam's wide, muscular chest like a sex-starved cat. Damn, but his brother had really grown up. _Yeah, this…this has got to stop,_ he thought, and swallowing hard, he pushed away, trying to scramble off Sam. He'd barely go an inch of space between them before Sam's hands clamped tight around his biceps. 

"No, Dean. Please." Sam's hands slid up along Dean's arms, coming up to cup Dean's face; shaking, Sam pulled him close, and Dean gave in, chills racing over his skin, tightening his nipples even more. 

"Sam, this is probably…god, it's a bad idea, a really bad idea…." 

"So stop me. Because if you don’t, I'm going to kiss you, and I am _so_ fucking certain of this, of you and me."

"I don’t know if we're ready for this—we just started talking again, Sam, just started being brothers…"

"Ready? Oh my fucking god, I've been ready for this since I was fourteen, you ass."

Seizing the chance to defuse the crazy tension between them, he drawled, "Well, you are a fucking sweet talkin' sonofabi—yow!"

Sam yanked Dean closer by the handful of Dean's hair he'd gripped. "I'm not kidding. Do it, right fucking _now._ Kiss me." 

Instinct drove Dean to grind against Sam, Sam hissed, rose to meet him—it was obvious they were on the same page, the thin sleep pants weren't doing much to hide that from each other. He was afraid to look into Sam's eyes, but he forced himself…what he saw was the truth. That Sam wanted this as much as Dean did. Dean kissed Sam then, like it was going to save his life. 

Kissing was good, Dean loved kissing, the way it made everything more real, his whole body more sensitive, and sent thrills racing down his spine, making his nipples get hard and tight, making his dick throb. God, he loved kissing. He surged against Sam, it felt ridiculously good, like he was twelve again and just rocking against the bed was enough to get him off. Dean thought Sam was grinding back, but Sam was wiggling and cursing, not trying to get away like Dean thought for a mortifying second, he was trying to get his pants down, get _their_ pants down….

Once he caught on, Dean was happy to help, ecstatic when Sam gathered their dicks together in one enormous hand, long bony fingers wrapped around them, squeezing them together and, fuck—it felt good. They slid in and out through Sam's fist, easy and slick because Dean was dripping like a faucet. Wave after growing wave of arousal swept through him, his breath sawed in and out, fast and shallow, his heart was pounding so hard it was a little scary. 

Sam was loud, much louder than Dean remembered him being. His free hand was grabbing at Dean, pulling and shoving him where he wanted him. He was gnawing at Dean's neck, then shoving him back so that he could watch, wide-eyed, the deep rose head of Dean's dick slip and slide past his—almost sobbing each time it caught against his, slick making his hand and their dicks sloppy, wet—

Sam's stiffened; he let out a yell so loud it echoed off the walls—Dean was fucking grateful beyond measure they were alone in the house. It slowly died down to a loud, long moan and then to a sobbing catch of breath....

A wash of hot, slippery come spewed out between them and that was all it took for Dean. "Oh, fuck—Sam—" Dean tensed, his breath caught, stilled—Sam's aftershocks knocked Dean over the edge with him. Just fucking thinking about their dicks sliding through their combined come set him on fire, made him seize like his body was trying to come again.

After, too worn out to move, they lay tangled together on the floor, arms and legs linked, and both of them floating deep in a contented haze. "I missed you, Sam," Dean mumbled into Sam's shoulder, "missed you so much."

"Yeah. Yes. This was…" Sam stopped, was quiet for so long that Dean got nervous, worried whether he'd blown it finally, completely—Sam patted him. "Relax, you. I was going to say, this was like taking the longest, weirdest, most fucked up road trip ever…like, there were some good stops along the way, but mostly it _sucked._ But then, you're cresting the final hill and at the bottom you see it. _Home._ And god, it feels so good to see home, to be home again. It's so fucking _good_ to be here, Dean."

"Yeah." There wasn't much else to say, hell, Sam pretty much nailed it. Dean closed his eyes, and pressed his mouth to Sam's shoulder, and just breathed him in.

=+=

Sam took to talking about the past, good times and bad, like he was trying to hash it all out. Dean had to admit, it felt good to lance that boil, let the poison out. There were a lot of days Dean didn’t remember, and he was swamped with guilt over that, but Sam didn't hold that against him. Along with talking out their past, Sam began hinting carefully about a possible future—one they could share.

"Look, I want to build something new with you. Start from the beginning. I've got another job, a job I think I can be happy in. I'm hoping that you might want to join me. It’s in South Dakota. It's not a big deal thing, I certainly won't get rich. But it's gonna make me feel good. Make me feel like I'm doing something positive for once; really helping people, helping families…I think it's what Dad wanted to do when he started out, before life kind of threw him a curve ball. I mean, wife, kids—I get that he felt he had to do what he thought was best for his family. But you and me, we can make a real difference—come with me Dean, please? "

"I don’t know Sam—I just started to feel like my life was untangling. 'Course everything's different again...I really don’t know, dude. What would Mom think?"

"Mom? What would she think—she'd think that we're _finally_ brothers again, that we want to make up for lost time and be…be happy."

"Let me think on it, Sammy, okay? I'm not saying no."

"But you’re not saying _yes."_

"Sam. I'm not saying no. Just let me think, okay? Give me a little time here." He gripped Sam's shoulders, pressed a kiss in the middle of that tangled mop. "There's a thing called patience. Never to late to learn it."

Sam sighed heavily and nodded. He lifted his head and smiled at Dean. Not a big, wide smile, but soft and shy. The kind of smile Dean hadn't got from Sam since he was a little kid, thin and too tall, curled around himself, pulling in his shoulders and trying to block out the world. Until they'd been alone together, that is, then Sam would bloom like…like a flower that only opened at night, something that only he'd been lucky enough to see. _I killed something wonderful back then,_ Dean thought. He'd crushed their lives while trying to save them. Maybe…maybe he owed this to Sam, a new start elsewhere. And hell, maybe he just plain _wanted_ it.

=+=

One evening, soon after, they were having a movie night, just a normal, average Friday night at home. Sam was picking through Mom's DVDs, and kind of rambling out loud about when and how they should tell Mom about them moving off somewhere together—typical Sam, treating it like it was a done deal. Which of course it was. Dean shook his head at himself. It'd been pretty much a done deal when Sam let loose those fucking dimples at him, bastard…Dean staggered, sudden pain ripping through his body, so fast, so overwhelming that he dropped straight to his knees like a sack of wet cement. He couldn't move, couldn't see, barely felt it when Sam picked him up and screamed for their mother.

=+=

Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this crappy— couldn't remember ever being this kind of sick before. He'd suffered broken bones, fevers, cuts and bruises and there'd been more than a few times in his life, for one reason or another, he'd been pretty sure he was about to cash his chips in—but this? This trumped all of that.

Sam worried and fretted over him, said Dean's temperature was jumping all over the place, and Dean believed that. He was alternately hot as hell and then so freakin' cold, his teeth chattered like crazy, loud enough to drown everything out. It fucking hurt laying still and hurt just as much if he moved. He was such a mess that finally Mom called their doctor, despite Dean whining that all he needed was a couple shots of Wild Turkey and a heating pad. Maybe some morphine. 

Mom came back after a bit, frowning mightily.

"What'd he say?" Sam asked, forehead like corduroy and his hand seemingly permanently sealed around Dean's. 

"He says it's the flu and there's not much we can do except keep him hydrated and dose him with naproxen. What a quack. Look at my poor boy!" 

Dean would have been really pissed that they were talking about him like he was three, but he was too worn out to speak, and he was having a hard time telling Sammy apart from the other Sam in the corner, the one that looked like a homeless axe-murderer, except for the eyes—when Dean caught his eyes, the poor sap looked like he was drowning.

Mom made an unhappy noise that distracted Dean from Scary-Sam in the corner. She was wringing a damp washcloth in her hands, wringing it pointlessly, over and over, until Sam gently eased it away from her. 

"How about some chicken soup, Mom? Maybe chicken and stars, you know how much Dean loves chicky-stars," Sam teased. Mom chuckled, and if Dean could work up any energy, he'd tell Mom and Sam both what they could do with their chicky-stars. She hurried out the door, probably planning an epic chicken soup.

When they heard her footsteps on the stairs, Sam turned to him, bent down and brushed his wonderfully soft, cool lips against Dean's burning forehead. "She's worried," he murmured.

Dean shook his head. "I knew calling the doctor wasn't going to help, now she's just gonna worry more." Which also sucked. Between him making Mom and Sam worry, and being trapped in bed feeling like he was being worked over by a chain-gang of psychotic dwarves out to mine his still-living bones for whatever minerals they possessed….

"What?" Sam asked. "Dwarves want what from your bones—dude, you get weird when you run a fever, you know that?"

Dean blinked, and there was Sam, leaning over him with a glass of water in his hand. He popped a straw in it and reached a hand behind Dean's head, lifted him so he could drink. God, it felt so good, Sam's big hand on his head. "Here," Sam said. "Suck."

Dean snickered weakly. He was sick, but hey, no such thing as too sick to enjoy an accidental double-entendre. 

"You're such an ass," Sam muttered, but fondly, and when he let Dean's head down back to the pillow, he leaned close and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. "Dude, you're so ho—unh, you're very warm," he said and rolled his eyes at Dean, who was starting to grin before Sam had even gotten half-way through his sentence. "And definitely a jackass."

 

Sam sat down on the edge of the bed, and Dean rolled a bit, so that he was curled against Sam. His brother had been by his side non-stop for the last two days. It made Dean feel good, when he wasn't being a greasy pile of fever-hot skin wrapped up in sweat-dampened sheets. When his joints ached too much, when his head ached too badly, Sam was right there, massaging him, rubbing those giant hands all over him. He held Dean's wrists tightly when the ache and fever made him feel like crying, and the weird thing was, it actually helped. Maybe just because as long as Sam was holding on to him, _all_ of his attention was focused on Dean. And Sam's focus was intense. It pulled Dean out of sleep sometimes, he'd wake up and Sam would be staring at him, a book ignored in his lap, just…looking. He'd blush sometimes, look away all shy and embarrassed but Sam had no reason to do so. Dean liked that Sam wanted to look, that he was watching out over him. Again, having that intense regard focused on him…it was everything Dean had ever wanted. Too bad he was too fuckin' sick to completely enjoy it. 

The third day rolled around and somehow, unbelievably, it got worse—his fever spiked, and the pain increased, felt worse than the time that fuckin' wyvern clipped him with its tail and the wound had gotten infected. Felt worse than that time after the djinn, when Sam found him in that dank, mildewy, stinking room and pulled him out….

 _No. Nightmare, s'all, that stuff wasn't real. Fever dreams, fever screams—_ Dean squeezed his eyes shut against tears, fought off the weird dreams and thoughts trying to drag him down. It was just the fever, that's all, he was hallucinating. It was like that time he dropped acid in that club in…in…but that wasn't…had that really happened? 

He felt himself sinking into sleep; sleep sucked him down, thick and hot, like tar. His body weighed planets, galaxies. The ocean held him down, filled him as he sank. His wrists, his shoulders, they ached like he was being drawn and quartered. 

Something fluttered in his chest, demanding attention. Dean drifted back to the surface, ocean pushing out of his lungs, water pouring out of his mouth as he tried to speak. He waved it away, brushed the little fish off his mouth and eyes. This was important, more important than sharks and bluefish and sad-eyed, stubbly-faced, Old Sam lurking by the nightstand. Dean couldn't hear him but read his lips. _Dean Come on Wake up damn it._

Dean felt vaguely insulted. He was already awake. And he didn't know where he was supposed to go, but Young Sam needed to know this, it was important; he had to tell his Sammy….

"I'm sorry, you know that right, Sammy? I'm so fucking sorry. I wanted to love you, like, all the ways, but I just…it was wrong." Dean felt achy and hot and didn’t even care that he was crying, or that his tears were scalding his face. "No, no—I was afraid. Tha's what. So, I'm sorry." He was just so tired of feeling bad about everything; he just wanted to let it all go. "My fish, Sam. I miss you so much. Please." 

Sam cupped Dean's face between cool hands, the coolness leaking out of Sam's fingers and dripping over his cheeks. Nice fingers, so cool and so solid. "Sleep Dean, that's what you need, I'll be here, Mom will be here, we love you, sleep baby, sleep…."

 

When he next opened his eyes, Sam was holding his hand, pressing soft kisses, to his forehead, to his lips, sweet, soft little pecks that said _I love you_ and _I need you._

He was cooler now, he ached a little less and his wrists felt less like they'd been skinned and covered in salt. Now that he wasn't in some half-waking dream, he could make Sam understand. "Sammy, you can't know how happy I am to be home again, god, I'm so glad you found me, you brought me back to life, you know, without you, I don’t know, I just don't—I was probably going to die, was dying but you—you—" he babbled, trying to get his words out fast, fighting the feeling that he was running out of time. Sam had to know—right now.

"Shhh, we know, Dean. Just relax now." Sam smiled so wide his dimples popped. He shook his head and said, "Look at you, man. You're sweaty, stinky, crusted with drool, and you're still most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Thank you—I think?" Dean laughed as much as his aching chest would allow him. "Beautiful, hunh? Not next to you, dude." He blinked, everything around him blurred slightly, like looking through rain-washed glass….

 

"Hey, hey, thank god—Dean—you're awake!" Sam whipped his head towards Dean, long hair sweeping forward, catching against his unshaven cheeks, his voice full of awe. A tear rolled off the end of Sam's ski-slope nose and Dean watched it drip off with fascination, thought about the ocean and wondered why. Why Sam was crying.

"Sure, you just talked to me, Sammy," Dean muttered. He twisted fitfully in the bed. The sheets under him felt stiff, the air smelled of stale smoke, undercut with a faint odor of bleach and mold. More dream stuff, not real. Mom's place smelled like sheets fresh off the clothes-line, apples, and a hint of some perfume…Halston, he thought, smelled nice. He inhaled, and coughed—still not Mom, but at least the stink of old smoke was gone; now it smelled sort of…stale, like sweaty tees and unwashed hair. He struggled to turn his head to the side, where Sam hovered, where the smell seemed to come from. 

Sam looked different; he looked so much older, fine lines around his mouth, his eyes, and strands of gray gleaming in the dark hair. It was brushed back and tucked behind his ears, baring his forehead in a way he never usually did. His cheeks were dark, unshaven but the kind of unshaven that meant he hadn't bothered with it in a few days…and were those sideburns? In fact, Sam looked like he hadn't bothered to do more than brush his teeth and wash his face for days. Streaks of purple underscored his eyes. He looked _exhausted. _He seemed somehow thinner; no, he was… _rawer._ Strung tight as a wire, like everything about him was on knife-edge. __

__How bad had this flu been? And where the heck was Mom, how could she just leave Sammy stuck with him—_ _

__Oh. Oh no. Mom wasn't here, had never been here. Couldn't be. Mom was dead—oh shit. Mom was dead—_ _

__"Dean."_ _

__He heard Sam, but if felt all wrong, like Sam's voice was echoing inside his head and outside of it, too. He could see Sam…Sams. Younger, softer, happier Sam, but there was another, this, this…older Sam, hard edges, scars, and worried, wary eyes._ _

__Dean knew he was home, but not home. He was there, but not there—oh god, he'd been right before—he _was_ running out of time! "Sam, you know I love you, right? I love you, and I'm never going to leave you again. I love you so much, so much…" he babbled it out, forcing out the words as fast as he could, before it all disappeared._ _

__That other Sam, young Sam, the one at home, was smiling, nodding. He pressed himself against Dean, Dean heard his voice, felt his lips move against his ear, _I know, Baby, never again, I love you too, new start, Dean, new start_ but this Sam, this solid, older, present Sam, he was silent, and the only part of him touching Dean was his hand, pressed against Dean's shoulder. Dean's hands reached out to that younger Sam and their hands locked, he felt an overwhelming flood of contentment, love, _belief_ and then…. _ _

__The jolt when he awoke fully felt like stepping off a twenty-story high curb, falling straight down until he slammed into the bed. The world somersaulted, righted itself and Dean reared back from Sam, throwing himself out from under Sam's grasp, gasping for air. "I'm out? It's dead?"_ _

__Sam nodded. "Yeah, thank god. You're out."_ _

__Dean knew immediately where he was now, what had happened. A djinn—getting jumped on a fucking grocery run, for god's sake, stunned and dragged into an abandoned warehouse, just the kind of place freakin' djinns liked. Remote, empty, lots and lots of hiding places. He'd got checked like a fucking amateur. Jesus. But Sam found him. Brought him back. Saved him…Dean swallowed hard. Yeah…safe and sound, back to the real world. Back to all this…._ _

__He couldn't stop himself from reaching out for Sam. Sam startled and drew back, hesitated for a moment before reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder._ _

__"Good to have you back man, I missed you," he said with a crooked smile, patting Dean awkwardly once or twice before pulling his hand back. Dean looked down at Sam's hands and saw his own twitching against the blanket—aching, bruised, wrists wrapped in gauze and tape. A phantom memory of Sam cutting his hands free as he hung from a chain, toes barely touching the ground, his shoulders and back turning into a twisted mass of cramped muscle, the rough, needle-like fibers of the rope shredding his wrists into raw hamburger when he'd tried so hard to get loose…._ _

__So, anyway, this was it, it was over. _This_ was the real world. Maybe somewhere else, a Sam and a Dean were getting to know each other all over again, where they were happy now they had each other again. _He_ was back in the world where Sam loved him, but not like that. Dean was his brother, and that was all he'd ever be to Sam. _ _

__Dean closed his eyes. Sam's hands were twisting a piece of the blanket; Dean thought he heard Sam say, faintly, quietly, "I got you back."_ _

__Why couldn't his memory of that other place have disappeared? It seemed so unfair that while he was in that dream world, he couldn't remember his real life, but now that he was back, every single fucking memory of that other place was crystal clear, and cut like broken glass._ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Sam**  
Only a couple of days had passed since Dean woke fully, but Sam could tell there was something different about him. It wasn't a major surprise, he'd had the feeling that Dean would be…different. In those foggy glimpses he'd had of Dean's dream-life, Dean had seemed happy. Which was odd, because the djinn he'd iced had been a particular type, one that fed off of misery. But Dean had seemed…well, definitely not miserable. There was something about the Dean in that world, he was…Sam considered, searching for the right word. Healing. Yes. He'd describe Dean in that world as healing, he'd glimpsed a lightness in Dean's eyes, so much less tension in Dean's body. He had to admit, that had hurt some, looking at Dean being happier without him. Still, he'd felt a little pinprick of sadness that Dean should lose that whatever it was that made him look so—uncomplicated.

And now, Dean was back, safe and sound, back in the bunker. Back with his real brother, and look how happy that made him, Sam thought sarcastically. Dean smiled and smiled while his eyes stayed blank. He joked and teased, painfully, awkwardly, going through the motions—Sam would have to be blind and deaf not to recognize Dean's not-very-good-coping mechanisms.

When Dean finally felt well enough to get out of bed, or more accurately, when Sam felt it was safe enough, the first thing he did was make Dean his favorite, diner-style Lumberjack Breakfast. He piled up pancakes and eggs and bacon and butter-soaked toast on the table, and the smile he got in return from Dean was a genuine one. It made Sam feel a little lighter—hopeful. 

A couple of bites in, Dean asked him, "So, just how did you find me? I know the damn djinn left the car out on the road. Fucker jogged with me hanging over its shoulder."

Sam winced—he knew just how that felt. Not good was a mild way to put it. "Uh, when you went out for groceries, it was taking too long, y'know? And no one at that bar you like had seen you and I don't know, I just got worried. I found your car, found blood on the front seat…took me a few before I realized it wasn't just a random smear of blood. Smart, scrawling that D on it. I knew you weren't trying to spell your name, and there as no sulfur, no usual demon sign. Um, so, I uh, cased out the area, expanding circles, right, and hit on an abandoned block of warehouses. Floor to roof, searched the whole damn place…I got lucky and found you after going through two buildings. Took me about…shit, too long, one whole day and a half. Almost two days the damn thing had you. Then you were out for two more…m'sorry." 

"What, no, don’t feel sorry, shit, that was some fast work, Sam. I'm pretty fucking impressed you figured out it was a djinn that fast. From one smeary 'D'. Hunh." 

"Yeah. Wee—ell, that and the blue hand print burnt into the upholstery." 

"What?" Dean shouted and staggered upright in outrage. He was a tower of rage, for about ten seconds before his legs gave out and he started listing to the side. Sam was right there, firm grip on his elbow. 

"See, that's why I was holding off on telling you. Infant."

"Fuck, Sam, my car—the upholstery—my Baby!"

"Really, Dean? Because that's the most important thing, right. Anyway…" He settled Dean back in his chair, pushed his plate closer to him and shoved his fork back in his hand. "I found it in the warehouse. Ganked it."

"Lamb's blood and silver?" 

"Yeah. It wasn't like those djinn you and Charlie came up against or the alpha djinn's kids, but it wasn't exactly like that escapee from Blue Man Group, you know, the one in '07.

"Heh—Blue Man Group. Good one," Dean said, or so Sam assumed. Hard to tell, being muffled by toast and eggs like that. Still, Sam couldn't help but grin. Dean was smiling, really smiling, and Sam loved it when he could make Dean laugh.

"Yep. So, ganked it but there was something weird going on. You just kept on sleeping. I mixed up some of the dream root, like you did with Charlie—but for me, it was like I was an unwelcome ghost in that world. You—or the dreamworld— kept kicking me out. And you never seemed to see me. Except for one time when you looked right at me, like, right into my eyes. I could see you were saying my name." Sam stopped, throat gone tight with emotion. He took a deep shaky breath before continuing.

"I didn't get it. Even though the djinn was dead, you weren't coming out. Thank fuck you didn't have that fever Charlie's djinn caused…but you were dehydrated, and your body acted like it was starving to death. I thought I was going to lose you." Sam hesitated, said, "You were…you were really living another life. Did…did you…?" 

Sam stopped again, took a deep breath. "So. I guess it was really different than the last time, you know, back then. Seemed like you wanted to stay there so bad; it must have been pretty great, hunh?"

Dean hesitated, eyes trained on his hands, before he shrugged. "Nah, not really. Actually, it wasn't any different from that first time. Mom was there and Dad was dead and you were happy with Jess. You hated me and I was a fuck-up. Business as usual. You were happy, and I just…you were happy, y'know?"

Sam bit his tongue, so angry it edged on rage, because Dean was lying about something. Something happened that had almost got Dean killed, and it wasn't Sam hating him, not by a long shot. "Okay, Dean." 

"I'll get the kitchen, since you did all the cooking," Dean said, and if he thought Sam didn't notice the lame attempt at distraction….

"Yea, I don’t think so, Dean. Nap time for you."

"'M'not a fucking baby, you know," Dean said, and then kind of challenged that statement by pouting. _Seriously?_ Sam tried not to laugh. 

"No, no, you're a fearless monster killer." 

"Damn right I am, and don’t you forget it, little brother."

Sam came around the kitchen table, helped Dean out of his chair. He was pale and shaky and had definitely over-extended himself. Typically Dean behavior. In a way it was comforting. Also really annoying. 

Sam took a chance and looped his arm around Dean's waist when he pulled Dean up out of his chair. Dean tensed, and Sam prepared to whip his arm away when suddenly Dean sort of…melted against him. Or at least let Sam hold him, help him walk to bed. He was warm and solid, and thank god, _awake._

Sam felt a twinge of guilt for how much he loved the feel of Dean's body pressing close against him. Feared that Dean would pick up on just how much he loved it. But he'd been through an event that brought up the worst of his memories—Dean's heart attack; it was like being right back there again, worse in some ways than having to watch hellhounds rip him to shreds. He'd never tell Dean about the hours he'd spent, leaning over him, hands holding on to him, mouth to his ear and whispering, whispering, how much he needed Dean, how much he loved him. God, he loved him too much.

=+=

They took a hunt, a simple salt and burn, the kind of job that used to be their basic bread-and-butter. If, you know, they'd actually ever gotten paid for doing what they do.

The first job was so easy they could have sleep-walked it. The ghost basically stood there looking confused, until they lit the bones and it was gone with barely a hiccough. In between the salt and burns they took care of a few other garden-variety monsters, nothing very difficult. The jobs all went well; Dean and he worked together like a well-oiled machine. 

After their latest easy case, Sam managed to convince Dean that things were even slower than usual, so it was the perfect time to indulge in one of their short vacations. He talked Dean out of hitting up Vegas and got him to agree to a road trip, as in a _real_ road trip—like, a 'ten diners in ten days' sort of thing. Waving the promise of heart-attack laden food at Dean never went wrong for Sam. 

At first it was a study in awkward. Without the concentration that a job required, there was not much they had to say to each other—or rather, there was too damn much to say, and no one knew how to approach it. 

Dean was like a ninja at avoiding any opportunity to talk about whatever it was that was weighing him down. Sam huffed in annoyance. He didn't have to be a genius to see that there was something painfully heavy on Dean's mind. Dean, who swore he knew everything about Sam…and okay, maybe he knew a few things, maybe he got Sam's tells, but he didn’t seem to be able to see that Sam knew him as well. This thing that Dean was not dealing with had to involve Sam. Whether it was good or bad…Sam shrugged. Fine. He'd handle it the way he always did. Lull Dean into a false sense of security and then rip the rug from under his feet. Sucker-punching Dean was always the best way to get him to pay attention. 

Sam glanced over at his brother. His eyes were trained on the road, his lips curved in a tiny smile, and his fingers drummed out some rhythm on the steering wheel. The sun played up the freckles on Dean's cheekbones, soft cinnamon dusted over the apple of his cheek. Sam traced the spray with his eyes. He smothered a smile when the sun lit the stray sprinkles of white in Dean's hair as well. He'd keep that observation to himself. And…maybe that thought about Dean's freckles as well. Sam frowned; it'd been a long time since he's let his thoughts ramble like that. Not a good direction to go. He turned to look out the window, felt Dean's eyes on him, and wondered.

They hit a couple of micro-breweries on their trip, something Sam never thought a Winchester would ever do. Ever since that one case with the alcohol-spirit, Dean admitted that, occasionally, beer that wasn't less than five bucks a sixer was—okay, actually beer—and kind of tasty at that. They were having honest-to-god fun, and the backseat was starting to fill up with fancy coasters. Dean said they'd use them on the tables when they got back to the bunker. "And maybe you'll stop bitching at me about water rings."

Sam thought that was really funny because the only one who bitched about stuff like that was Dean 'I'm Nesting' Winchester….

So, they drove a lot, and ate a lot. They stopped at a slightly better class motel than they usually would, ate at slightly better places than they normally did. And they talked about what they'd been through in their lives. About what happened in Dean's dream world. Dean claimed he'd told Sam everything he remembered, but Sam knew there was there was a big, heavy _something_ that kept Dean from being completely comfortable—it wasn't hard to tell that something was gnawing at Dean ferociously. 

The thing was, Sam had an idea about what might be weighing Dean down—he was almost willing to bet on it. But he might be wrong. And if he was wrong, if he was reading his own wants into it, than their relationship would go to shit. Sure, they might still work together—Sam knew from before that they could be fucked five ways from Sunday and still be able to work together, but the hell if Sam ever wanted to go through that again.

=+=

Every semi-vacation had to end eventually; it was time to head home again. They packed up and headed out the long loop back towards Kansas, and home.

On the way, they ran into a town plastered over with signs promising the best, most entertaining, most _amazing_ fair in the entire state—maybe the world. With hyperbole like that, they had to stop—not to mention there was Dean's obsession with corn dogs and funnel cake, which meant there was no chance of getting out of it. Dean might be crazy about the grease and the stink and the chance to ogle barely-clothed chicks, but Sam was no fonder of fairs than he was of circuses; there was too much chance of colliding with fucking bozos. Clowns. He hated clowns. Fucking murderous things….

They strolled around the brightly lit fair-grounds, passing gaggles of giggling, illegally tipsy teens, pawing each other in the name of young love. Sam tried hard not to imagine what it'd be like if Dean reached over and…what if he held his hand out and…Sam sighed. _Yeah. What the fuck if._

"Hey," Dean knocked him in the ribs hard enough to make him stumble sideways. Sam glared at him—sometimes Dean just didn’t get how strong he was, or maybe he didn't get that Sam was actually flesh and blood and not brick and mortar. "There's a gypsy fortune teller tent over there."

"So what? And it's not gypsy, Dean. It's Rom."

Dean stared at him, his eyebrows drawn tight together and his mouth slightly open, like he was really trying hard to understand Sam. Sam rolled his eyes and pushed Dean. "So, fortune teller," Dean went on like Sam had never spoken. "We should just, y'know, like…proactive kind of thing."

Sam stared at his brother for a second before his words and facial tics linked together and actually made a sentence. "You mean check and see if she's a possible problem? Way out here in wherever the hell we are, and oh, by the way—fake psychics are practically the whole industry?"

"Sam. Shit happens; it doesn't pick a place to happen. Come on, in you go—do your thing and emo all over her."

"And you?" Sam asked, rolling his eyes.

"I'll be listening." Dean gave Sam one of those shit-eating grins that always made Sam want to clock him one. And, yeah, okay, grab him and…

Yeah. That.

Sam felt like an ass the second he pulled the heavy tent flap aside. The young woman sitting at a pimped-out card table in the middle of the tent probably wasn't a psychic, or Rom, or anything more than a college grad with big bills and no prospects. She had a vaguely bohemian-style look, crinkled linen shirt with puffy sleeves, embroidered around the neck and cuffs. Her makeup was a stab at exotic, jeweled earrings hung to her shoulders; lamplight gleamed from multiple rings and the necklace that hung in the low neckline of her blouse. Her pale brown hair was pulled into a tight, high ponytail, exposing her face and pointing up the faint lines around her eyes. She looked tired as hell, but dredged up a smile for Sam when he came closer. That surprisingly sweet smile and the general shabbiness of everything else dispelled any further thoughts that she might have some problematic powers. 

She waved her hand at the chair across from her, her dozens of cheap metal bracelets ringing like chimes as she did. "Come on, sit, sit." She folded her hands in front of her when Sam did, and arranged her face in a serious expression. "Welcome, seeker of knowledge. I'm happy to help you pull back the veil and reveal your future—for ten bucks."

"What if I want more?"

"Twenty bucks gets you a 'reading' with tea and cookies." The grin she gave Sam was lop-sided and kind of sweet, inviting him into the joke. She swept him with an appreciative look and he felt ridiculously shy at the obvious interest—until suddenly everything changed. 

Her expression shifted from mildly pleasant and a little flirty to sharp, focused—it said she knew he was much more than just a passing tourist. Sam's skin crawled briefly and he had the distinct feeling of something ghostly rubbing the inside of his skull—a definitely disconcerting sensation. He crossed his arms over his chest as though that could keep her out, and said, "You're for real—you're gifted."

The fortune teller shrugged and said, "Hon, I do what I do. How about you tell your partner to come on in and sit too?"

Dean poked his head in the tent and scowled. "How'd you know I was out there?"

"Because I'm an observant person like that. That's just me. And you are…hunters. And something big happened lately that has you both freaked. Am I right?"

Sam straightened in his chair, from the corner of his eye, he caught Dean going on point as well. 

She looked from Sam to his brother and huffed, the corners of her mouth turning up in a wry grin. She leaned back in her own chair. "Yeah, I've dealt with your type before. You know, not all hunters fly solo and when they don't, not all of them make it a family business. And it didn't take anything supernatural on my part to ID you—I recognize the signs, guys." She straightened and smiled wide at them both. "So, yeah, I've got a little shine, not as much as some but more than the average. And out of professional courtesy, I'll do this one on the house…" she reached out towards Dean. "May I?"

He hesitated, cut Sam a look and at Sam's slight nod, he shrugged. "Yeah, okay." He held out his hand towards to her.

She rested her fingers lightly on Dean's skin; Sam could see them tremble slightly although she barely touched his knuckles. 

"Wow!" She startled, almost losing contact with Dean as her eyes went wide." You've had some…unh, some…pretty rough days. I can see what you were up against. Why the hell did you go alone?" she frowned, her eyes fixed on some distant point.

"Trust me, sister, I had no plans to go after anything alone, learned that lesson the hard way—a few times." He glanced quickly at Sam, went on to say, "It wasn't a hunt. I just got…tripped up. Didn't pay enough attention and the bad guy took advantage of it. It happens."

Sam exhaled a breath he hadn't even known he was holding. It was good to know that Dean really would not jump into the path of a speeding train anymore, good to know that he trusted Sam at his back, wouldn't make a move without him. He was also impressed that Dean told the woman the truth, without acting like he was a total failure of a hunter and human being and not worth the air he breathed. 

That right there was a more than welcome difference. Sam wondered, with maybe a trace of bitterness, whether they owed this to that other, better, Sam. 

She nodded at Dean, her voice quiet, thoughtful, when she spoke again, "Things happened to you. You found out that what you'd taken for truth all these years was not quite the way you'd always seen it. Possibilities were exposed, but there's something holding you back." She moved her fingers a bit, frowning, and then she jumped. "Oh! Oh…"

Dean slid his hand out from under hers and stood. "No, wait," she said. "It's not…it's kind of…" She stopped, took a breath; Sam could see her gathering herself, and it hit him what she must have seen…if he was right. 

She blew out a breath and tapped the table, motioning for Dean to put his hand back. Sam held his breath, waiting, until Dean's hand crept back across the table. Reluctance radiated from him so intensely that it was almost visible, like heat waves off tarmac. 

"Okay now, everyone's got a path. Some run side by side and some are intertwined like whoa. So, even if…" She hesitated. Glanced at Sam, at Dean; Dean stopped her before she could go on. 

"Well, thanks much, but I think I had enough truth for the night." He dropped ten bucks on the table. "Sorry I can't spring for cookies. I'm sure they'd be fresh and tasty."

"Not really, I buy them." She looked at Sam. "Don’t you want to ask a question? No charge for one question."

He shook his head no, but then slid his hand across the table. "Um, I just…do you…"

"Yes, the answer is yes. But move soon or it'll be no."

Dean turned from the opened flap of the tent, looking over his shoulder at Sam. His face was creased like he'd sucked on a lemon. "What's that mean?" he snapped, but the question was directed at Sam and Sam just kept his head down. Shrugged like it didn't mean anything.

=+=

By the time they were back on the main thoroughfare, Dean's mood had lightened back up. He got them both cotton candy, freshly made, wrapped around a long, thin paper cone—the way it should be, Dean said, those bags of cotton candy sucked balls. They walked back to the car, sucking on sticky fingers and glancing at each other from time to time. Sam thought about the reading Dean had received, and the answer he'd been given. Sam thought about what he'd asked, or halfway asked, anyway.

"So, she was kind of like Missouri, hunh? The way she just touched my hand and seemed to know," Dean mused. "She knew a lot more than what she was letting on, too…." He said but trailed off, like he hadn't meant to say that out loud.

"Maybe. Who knows?" Sam said. "She seemed like a good person. Nice."

Dean agreed, "That's why we’re not coming back here later on tonight with guns and gasoline."

"Dean!" Sam shook his head. His brother could be so ruthlessly…violent. Dean just kept walking. He had a look, like he was thinking hard. Sam flushed. He wished—hoped—he knew what Dean was thinking about.

 

They were quiet that night in their motel room. They shuffled silently around each other, doing their decades-long dance. Showering, brushing teeth, dressing, never actually getting in each others way. The eternal dance, Sam thought, as they wove in and out around each other, smiling. Sam thought, _This is where they should always be, side by side. Orbiting each other._

Dean clicked off the overhead, leaving a muted TV to throw pale light in the room. They settled in bed; the sound of trucks rushing past on the interstate gradually became as soothing as the sound of the ocean. He remembered the shush-shush-shush of waves rushing in and out over stony beaches; in and out…Sam was standing on hot, white sand, nibbling waves cooling his toes, when he heard Dean's voice behind him. He waited for Dean's hand to land on the small of his back; bring him closer…the waves rose higher, higher…

He came fully awake when he realized Dean _was_ speaking. Dean said, soft and hesitant, "He was…he was kind of like you."

 _Ah._ Sam made a small noise, letting Dean know he was listening, prepared to have his heart broken, to hear about this perfect other Sam, and what a good, _better_ brother he was and how Dean hadn't wanted to leave him.

"He was like you, but…harder. Much harder, in a way. He was willing to hurt people—he did hurt people, but. It wasn’t his fault. I made him that way. Or I guess that Dean, in that world, made him that way."

"What do you mean 'that Dean'?"

"It was all different, Sam. This djinn-world wasn't like the dreams before. You saw that, right, when you dream-walked my head? It was like, in that world I wasn't your— I wasn't _me,_ Dean. I was some other Dean. He was a fuck-up, and he treated his family like shit. He did something really bad and it broke you—I mean, his Sam, that Sam. Anything that was wrong with that Sam came directly from what that Dean did to him. It was bad. I'm just not sure…which part of it was the bad part."

Sam gave up all pretense of sleeping; he looked over to the next bed where his brother was. "What happened to make them that way? Do you know?"

Dean folded his arms under his head and sighed. "First of all, you gotta understand, that world was _real,_ Sam. That djinn didn’t just make me dream it, it felt like he _sent_ me there."

"I don’t think that's something they can do—"

"I know that, but—it _felt_ real, all right? Even when I was waking up, it felt…different, felt more like I was…getting shoved out of his head and stuffed back into mine. But anyway, he was an asshole. Me being in that Dean…maybe fixed some stuff? I think so, anyway.I tried. And that Sam…he was getting better, too." He was smiling, Sam could hear it in his voice, he was thinking about that other Sam. That Sam who _wasn't_ the perfect brother, who was an ass, a jerk—and Dean still liked him better. Fuck. 

Sam bit his lip. He was getting jealous over what was essentially a dream, a ghost…Dean's invisible friend. "What did you do? Not you, that Dean, the other—you know what I mean."

"The worst thing he could have done. He betrayed his brother's trust. He did the unthinkable, Sammy, and he let his family down."

Sam let Dean's words sink in, and then said, "I'm sure…if that world's Dean did something wrong, he might have tried to fix it. But…for us, taking on the job of fixing things the way _we_ think they should be, without asking each other first? Has never worked. We've always, always made things worse. Those guys should have talked to each other. Trusted each other. And we keep working on that ourselves, don't we?" Sam said with a wry laugh.

"Yeah, but we’re making progress," Dean shot back, sounding aggrieved. 

"Yeah. We are at that." Sam smiled and lay back down. He listened to Dean shuffling around on his bed, and the sigh he let out. "Good night, big brother," he said. 

He heard a tiny huff of a laugh and Dean whispering, "Good night, little brother."

=+=

Sam was glad to be back in the bunker. Not a 'drop the bags on the floor yelling, _thank god we're back home baby I hated leaving you'_ kind of happy, like some he could name….but close. The em-oh-els had laid in incredible stores of the most amazing coffee, coffee that no other place had ever compared to. And the beds might not be huge, but god, they were comfortable—the fact that his back had stopped bothering him around the time they'd moved in to the bunker was definitely no coincidence. And the showers…holy shit, they were good, better than any other he'd ever had, including the ridiculously fancy showers in Jess' family home.

These showers weren't pretty like those had been, no granite tiles and gleaming bronze fixtures, but who needed pretty when the water pressure was strong enough to knock the ache out of tight muscles, and the water stayed endlessly, deliciously hot? Plus those guys had been smart enough to include showerheads with adjustable arms—he could shampoo his hair without having to do deep knee-bends for the first time since he was fourteen. 

Sam leaned into the spray with a satisfied grunt. Those guys knew what a man needed. Enough heat to relax stiffened muscles, give you time to think…and he was currently thinking about Dean. Who was innocently sleeping away, thankfully unknowing that at the moment, his little brother was in the shower, soaping up his dick, and definitely not thinking about cleanliness. He was picturing sun-brightened, freckled skin, gleaming with sweat. Tasting of salt and Dean, slippery under his mouth, Dean moaning and riding his thigh. Dean's dick, thick and red, come slicking his skin…or, better yet, Dean's mouth full of Sam's dick, spit and come dripping down his chin, lips hot, swollen from being wrapped around Sam's dick….

" _Fuck_ me, damn it, oh god—" Sam ended up full-body stumbling into the wall, groaning and shaking as he came all over the milky green tiles. He slumped there, too wrung out to move, sated and comfortable with warm water rushing down his back, warmth against his chest and belly…um, clever heated tiles. Those men of letters really thought of everything. He smiled faintly, imagining the planning session on that project. 

Since he'd begun to think about the faint possibility that Dean might not be a thousand percent opposed to the possibility that Sam was, _could_ be more than just a hunting partner—and brother, of course—his body had begun to respond every minute Dean was close. He might have pulled it off if he just could stop himself from blushing and sweating every time Dean came close. The man was starting to look at him strangely. 

Sam wasn't sure what to do about that. But what the 'fortune teller' had said kept coming back to him. _Move, or don't. Yes if you do, but no if you don’t do it soon._

If he waited for Dean to come to him and say, "Sam, in that other world, there's a possibility I let you suck my dick and I liked it", or something like that anyway, it was never going to happen. He had to be the one to bring it out in the open. He would have to strike first. As soon as he could figure out when. And how.

=+=

They were coming back from a short job, one that Charlie had passed their way. A siren hunting a lake—nothing you'd want to take on alone, but not too terribly difficult with a partner. Stuffing wax in their ears had worked to block its call, and taking a silver knife to its long, scaly throat had iced it. It went down, screeching and clawing, spraying its thin, greenish blood all over the both of them. It took a while for its body to get that it was dead. After, they'd dumped a shit load of salt over it and watched it dissolve, like a slug.

Both of them were clawed and bruised, reeking of dead fish and the sea, but Dean drove along whistling, obviously content with a job well done. Sam made note of what new information they'd gleaned about sirens and jotted down personal observations ( _Dean is an idiot_ ) in his journal as they drove back to their motel. 

Sam would enter a cleaned up version of his notes in Charlie's monster file that night, typing on the laptop as they had pizza and beers in the motel room. Reading those bare bones descriptions of their jobs made what they'd done sound simple, he thought, just like this one would sound, but it was hard to describe just how creepy the needle teeth and claws were, or how scary it was that thing had just enough feral intelligence to almost outmaneuver them. His recap wouldn't take into account the freezing water they'd sloshed around in, both inside the boat and on the island's rocky shore. No one had told him a skiff could hold so much water in the bottom without capsizing. Or that his damn canvas jacket was going to freaking hold water like a desperate lover. Wet and freezing, the only real blessing of the whole deal was that the wax plugs kept him from hearing Dean bitch non-stop, judging by the way his lips kept moving. He'd left those plugs in all the way to the motel, smiling to himself.

=+=

They left so early the next morning that sunrise brightening in the windshield woke Sam from a soft-edged dream about…he wasn't sure, but glanced at Dean, cheeks gone hot with embarrassment. Dean was just staring forward, mouth bowed with that small half smile he got when Baby was eating up the miles. Sam sighed quietly to himself and closed his eyes again.

At a rest stop not too far from home, they got out, bought food and coffee and strolled over to a circle of picnic tables, choosing one that was set off slightly from the others. It was still early morning, and the rest stop was practically deserted. The coffee steamed in the cool air and god, it was good to hold that hot cup between fingers that still felt frozen from icy lake water.

Dean plopped himself on the table, rested his feet on the seat. Sam held back a bit, his eyes on the mountains behind them, the blue sky. A memory of him leaving Dean at a rest stop like this years ago made him ache with remembered pain. He shook his head, turned to see Dean smiling at him, soft and tinged with sadness. Sam couldn't help but smile back. 

"Come here," Dean said and Sam took the few steps to stand in front of Dean, his eyebrows tilted in question. "Sit," Dean said and Sam shuffled over, ready to sit next to him before Dean stopped him. "No, here," and Sam blushed; Dean was pointing at a spot between his feet. Sam sat gingerly, arranged himself so that he was between Dean's boots with as much space as possible on either side, but Dean surprised him by moving his knees, snugging them up against Sam's ribs. Sam stiffened—then slowly, carefully relaxed. He drank his coffee and wondered what Dean was doing.

"There you go," Dean said, sounding pleased, and Sam went warm all over. Felt like he'd been alone, out to sea forever, now finally, thankfully, he'd come to port. 

They ate in comfortable silence, and when they were done, Sam waited for Dean to nudge him off the bench back towards the car, what he felt instead was Dean's hand, warm on the back of his neck, kneading tentatively at first, giving Sam plenty of time to lash out, sprint away. Instead, Sam just leaned into the warmth, luxuriating in the sure way Dean worked out the tightness at the base of his skull—god, Dean's _touch_ was something Sam hadn't known he'd been _desperate_ for until now. Everything went blurry, his eyes slit with the sheer, sensual pleasure of it—he thought that if he'd been born a cat, he would have been purring. 

"Hey. Sammy." 

Sam turned towards Dean a bit, and Dean hooked tender fingers under Sam's jaw and slowly tilted his head upwards. He moved carefully, inch by inch, until Sam was dizzy from the wonderful, nerve-wracking anticipation of incredible change about to happen—and then Dean pressed a dry, little kiss to his cheek.

He'd been so keyed up it felt like Dean punched him instead; the disappointment at the brotherly peck hit him that hard. He forced a smile and Dean just stared at him, eyes flicking from point to point on Sam's face. He nodded, seemingly satisfied about whatever it was he saw. 

"Okay," he whispered, but before Sam could ask what was okay, hot, full lips pressed against his mouth. Sam jerked, gasped a bit, and Dean's tongue slid between Sam's lips, past his teeth, stroked soft and warm against the roof of his mouth, over Sam's tongue. Dean pulled back slowly, nipping at Sam's lips; playful nipping faded into soft seductive grazes, almost bites, making Sam's lips tingle and sting in a very good way. Dean eased the sting with gentle, tugging kisses before he let Sam go, with a last, soft tug and a hum of pleasure—sucking just a bit at Sam's lower lip before finally, really, letting go. 

Sam was reeling, dizzy from sudden sharp arousal, flummoxed that Dean _Dean!_ had kissed him— _kissed him!_ His neck ached from the awkward position, his dick was hot and throbbing in his jeans. He made a move to ease it and stopped, because. Well. It was kind of embarrassing, how fast he'd gotten so hard. 

So, it seemed Dean had been the one to strike first. Dean was the one who'd figured out where and how…not that Sam was complaining, not at all. 

"Uh…wow…" Sam breathed after a few long moments and Dean nodded. Sam swallowed, muttered, "That…that was it, wasn't it? The missing piece."

"The missing what?" 

"Oh," Sam waved away Dean's question as if it was an unimportant distraction. He'd forgotten that Dean hadn't been privy to the non-stop dissection of the situation that had been going on in Sam's head. He said, "What you wouldn't tell me about that world, why it was hard for you to leave it. I thought it was because, y'know, you loved him. But no. It's me. You love _me."_

Dean frowned like he was about to protest, but sighed instead, his look gone distant and sad. "It's not…yeah, I did love him, but…because I found out I could actually have what I wanted. That I'd _had_ it and I'd thrown it away. So, I loved him, yeah, but I love you more." Dean blinked, stared down at Sam's upturned face. He smiled, that little half smile of contentment. "It took me a while before I could admit it to myself. But I thought about how it fucked those guys up, not dealing with it, and I thought it'd do the same to us, even now. But you and me, Sam, we're _different_ than those other guys, with all their fucked-up crap—fucked-up worse than us, if you can believe it..." Dean scrubbed at his face, and laughed a little, low and rueful. "Yeah, we're not some confused kids stumbling around trying to figure shit out anymore. Well, okay, we're still trying to figure things out, and that shit's not easy by any means but—"

"Dean—" Sam was dying to ask for details, but Dean shook his head, blushed a bit as he went on.

"I promise I'll explain all about that other world another time…god, it's so fucked up and pathetic. _I_ was so pathetic. But I do. Love you, always have."

Sam smiled, turned to face the mountains again and relaxed back into the vee of Dean's legs; he leaned his head back against Dean's shoulder and circled his arms around Dean's bow-legs. He grinned when Dean sucked air—realized he'd settled his back against Dean's more-than-interested dick. They sat quietly for a few moments before Sam said softly, "You know, we should really get back home so that we can take care of that problem trying to dig a hole in my back."

He heard Dean grunt like he'd been punched, and then he was being pushed off the bench. Dean hopped off too, doing a weird little two-step towards and away from Sam, like he couldn't wait to get home, but then again, maybe not—

Sam settled Dean's conflicted spazzing by grabbing hold of his wrist and towing him in the direction of the car, because he was an awesome brother like that. 

"Dude. I'm comin' I'm comin', no need to rip my hand off." Dean leveled a glare at Sam, tried to pull away but Sam was having none of that. "Pushy, bossy, hairy—"

Sam just stared down his annoying brother and asked, "So, let me get this straight—you're not actually interested in getting head?"

Dean's eyes flew wide. "I—I—um. Whu-? Yes? I mean—yes!"

Sam leaned over Dean and patted his cheek. "Okay then. Lets get you home, Rico Suave."

"Fuck you, you don’t even remember that, you were what—five?"

"Eight, and I'll never forget you running around, skinny-ass, bare-chested in a jean jacket with that bandana tied around your head—" 

"Shuddup. I'm not even hard anymore. You killed my boner. You're a boner-killer—"

"God, please shut up." Sam didn't even have to look behind himself to know Dean was wearing a huge, shit-eating grin. He figured Dean knew he was grinning too.

 

It didn't take them long to get back to the bunker, but once they were there, uncertainty put a damper on desire. They shuffled around awkwardly, patting papers into neat piles on the library tables, commenting on the weather, the coffee, on the possibility there might be a carwash somewhere in the basement 'cause there were all those cars in there plus a bay that could fit a tank so a carwash wasn't exactly a goofy idea Sammy and the milk might be going off Dean think it's time for a grocery run and—

"Oh, for fuck's sake—" Dean snapped, and planting his hands in the middle of Sam's wide back, pushed him down the hall to his room. 

They weren't clumsy, horny teenagers, far from it. They didn't stumble along the way, kissing frantically, or pull each other down the corridors by their collars. They didn't throw one another against walls, too desperate to fuck to make it to a bed. They didn't burst through the doors; kick doors open because it took too long to open them. At this age, with all the experience they had, all the stifled desire, the longing—it wasn't even about the sex, now. Well, not just about sex. What Sam wanted, craved so much, was the promise of intimacy and the permission to look and touch and hold as much as he wanted. Oh my god, to hold Dean, to breathe him in, taste him…fucking _choke_ on him….

Well okay, there might be more to it than wanting intimacy, Sam thought, as they staggered into the room, Dean still driving him with his warm hands planted between his shoulder blades. 

Sam looked, looked all he wanted because he could now, filling up his mind with this picture of Dean, his face tilted up towards him…his red-flushed cheeks. Dean's pupils were blown wide and made the slim circle of green left seem so _bright—_ bright again like a younger Dean. In the bunker's dim evening light, Dean looked like that skinny kid who'd broken into Sam's college life, come to collect him when Dad went missing. Sam waited for the familiar pain that memory always invoked, but it didn't come. The past was well and truly the past, finally gone to rest. He loved Jess still, he always would, but if he was honest with himself, he loved her for what she'd become to him, a symbol of his youth—his past. Dean, who could be so fucking annoying, sarcastic, cold, and ruthlessly practical, but also deeply loving, and sweet in his own special way…this person was Sam's future.

 

Turned out undressing in front of each other with intent was weirdly different than struggling out of mud and blood-soaked clothing; scraping monster guts off each other was different than…than _this._ Sam stood there, goosebumps racing over him from the slightly cool air…and from standing in front of his brother, naked, with a hard-on. He reached down meaning to cover himself, but when Dean's eyes followed that movement, when he licked his lips, Sam changed it into a slow stroke up his dick. He swiveled his hand at the top, palmed the head and groaned. He opened his eyes—didn’t know he'd closed them—and Dean was staring open-mouthed at him, his own dick standing up, trapped in his boxers still. 

Dean looked him over from head to toe, and Sam grimaced. The man's sharp gaze still said 'triage' more than it said 'can't wait to get my hands on you', but Sam figured he could get him there. He stroked himself again, watching Dean's dick jerk and a darker spot grow where it pressed against the front of his boxers, and Sam loved it. Sam always did love feeling he was the center of Dean's attention, as much as he knew Dean loved being the center of Sam's. And Dean might be shy about this, but Sam wasn't, not now, not as ready as he was to grip, grind on, smell, and fucking _taste_ every inch of his brother. He stepped closer, skimmed hands up Dean's ribs, enjoying that he could touch Dean while he was conscious and not bleeding or moaning in pain. Fucking hell, it felt good.

His skin was warm, smooth under Sam's hands; he rested them on Dean's chest just to feel him breathe. Sam closed his eyes, falling into the rhythm of the steady in and out of his brother's breath. After a minute Dean poked him abd Sam opened his eyes to Dean's cocked eyebrow, worry deepening the creases around his eyes, the corners of his mouth. 

"Sam?"

Sam shook his head and smiled at him, increased the pressure, slowly pushing Dean down onto that damn foam mattress that he was so fond of. Dean had the nerve to appear shy…looking up at Sam through lowered lashes, pink tongue wetting that thick lower lip, blush making his freckles glow—the bastard. Still, there was a warmth flowing between them, an understanding; Sam could see how much this meant to Dean, feel the almost spiritual connection between th—

"God damn, Sam," Dean said, voice keen and so sincere, "I wanna fuck you 'til you scream, fill you full of come an' fuck you all over again. I wanna suck your dick so fuckin' good, your toes curl and you come your damn brains out—"

Sam rolled his eyes at himself. _Right. Spiritual connection, sure._ "What the fuck was I thinking?" Sam muttered. 

Sam could imagine whatever he wanted—that they were soulmates, forever fated to be right here where they were, or maybe cursed, what the hell ever—but _Dean?_ Was never going to be anything but himself, and that meant dealing in blood and bone reality. 

Teasing and poking and tripping Sam so he fell face first to the ground— _this_ Dean could understand, approve of. Intimacy, and something close to romance? That was the stuff he'd have to work on, get Dean to see the merits of. No problem, Sam had all the time he needed to teach Dean that. 

Right now, he was about to make it plain just who was fucking who.

He lowered himself onto his sex-fiend brother and Dean took it as a challenge, tried to flip Sam to his back. "Don’t break a hip, old man," Sam smirked, and Dean cursed at him—then smiled, that tongue pressing up behind his teeth like it was trying to hold in giggles, his eyes sparkling, as he drove fingers into that spot guaranteed to make Sam shriek like a startled goat. 

He wrestled Dean deeper into the bed, straddled him and grinned at Dean's startled gasp, how it was followed by a barely muffled groan when Sam slid his ass against Dean's dick. So much for cocky, Sam thought, and he began running his fingers lightly over whatever he could reach of Dean, fingertips skipping over the bumps and rills and divots this life had marked them with—it was weird how comforting it was that their skin was the same. 

Dean hissed when Sam's fingers slid under his waistband. "Okay?" Sam whispered, and Dean nodded. Sam had expected more out of Dean—a rougher, nastier approach, but no, he just stared at Sam with those big eyes, sucked nervously at that gorgeous bottom lip until Sam had to suck it himself. He worked his teeth over Dean's mouth and down his neck, across his little copper-colored nipples—he was pleased to find out how sensitive Dean was there, they pebbled up so obediently for him. Dean gasped so prettily as Sam proceeded to truly turn him out. By the time he slid Dean's boxers down, they were soaked through where the head of his dick had caught in the fabric. 

Dean was a leaker, Sam liked that a lot. He licked up the puddle of slick gathering on Dean's belly and sucked the smooth head of his dick in deep; it slid across his tongue, hot and silky, making Sam shudder with how damn good it felt in his mouth, the weight, the salty-sweet taste…he was never going to be able to live without this now that he knew. 

He tightened his lips and sucked, hollowing his cheeks, drawing Dean in as deep as he could, letting him slide out again—it felt good, the stretch, the ache, Dean thick, hot, throbbing in his mouth. Precome and spit bubbled out around the edges of his lips, helping smooth out the drag. He let Dean slip out of his mouth again, took a shuddering breath in. Giving head wasn't something he had a lot of experience with—it had happened only a couple of times before Jess, driven by alcohol and loneliness, and wanting his brother back. Still, Dean hadn't punched him in the head yet, so Sam figured he couldn't be doing too badly. 

He jerked Dean while he pulled back for air and rested his jaw. His chin was wet and he was soaking Dean's pubes, Dean's balls—fuck, he was drooling all over everything, and he couldn't scrape together the brain cells to care. He was so fucking hard, it hurt. He went back to work, getting his shoulders into it, trying to take Dean's fat dick deeper, right into his throat. Below the waist, he was grinding the bed like he was fourteen again. It was near perfection. 

Dean's dick slid wetly through Sam's hand, he felt it thickening. Dean was practically levitating off the bed, and the noises he was making were so hot, the way he tried to keep them muffled, the way they broke loose anyway.

He kept waiting for Dean to grab his hair, shove his head down on his dick, or do anything the cocky-ass bastard of his fantasies did. Instead, he was kind of worryingly quiet. He lay still as possible, one arm covering his face, his hand in a tight fist—the other hand petting Sam's head like he was afraid of hurting him. Sam went down on him with a vengeance, pulling everything out of his meager bag of tricks. He almost whooped in relief when Dean finally gave in to him, jerking and quivering, huffing out breathy little gasps and moans that Sam found hotter than any amount of yelling and cursing. Dean's shocked little cry when his dick hit the back of Sam's throat almost made him come. 

"Sam, Sam, Sammy, oh god," he whispered from behind his arm, "Fuck me please." 

Sam groaned and dropped his head, rubbed his cheek against Dean's dick. The stab of lust from that whispered request was so sharp and deep, it almost hurt. "Yeah, yeah, but not, not yet." He slid fingers into Dean's ass, stroking the hot, soft flesh inside—biting his lip to keep from moaning at the way it clung to him, Dean was smooth like silk inside, burning up. Sam was _inside_ Dean, Dean wanted him inside him. Fuck, the way he opened up, too, that pink little bud pouting open to let him in…Sam's dick spat out a wad of precome, he rubbed himself against the sheets trying to keep from just throwing himself on his brother and slamming inside him.

"You like that? Want more?" Sam scissored his fingers until Dean was moaning nonstop and grinding down on Sam's hand. Yeah, okay, Sam thought, we can…slow, maybe we should, oh god, don’t think I can…

"Stop talking about it and do it already."

"Fuck, was that—" Sam laughed, so fucking gone, he hadn’t even realized he'd said all that out loud. "Okay."

He fumbled around in the night table drawer until he found what he was looking for, a sticky little, half-used tube of lube. "Hah," Sam barked. "Knew I'd find some. Wow, not much left in it, hunh?"

 

"What? Lotion sucks, dude, it's for twelve year olds." Dean blushed despite his sarcastic tone, and Sam grinned. He spread lube over his dick, not stroking too much, he'd never hear the end of it if he blew his load now. He lined up the head and carefully pushed inside, feeling the rim give way, open for him. It took his breath away, pushing into that tight, warm flesh, feeling it give slowly, feeling Dean adjust as he went deeper. Dean was gasping, his breath hitching, but Sam could see—in the way his eyes glowed, the way his face, his chest flushed red—that Dean loved this

Sam shivered, surging deeper inside as he did and punching a moan out of Dean, moaning himself at the eager way Dean spread his legs wider and tipped his ass up to meet Sam. Words poured out of Dean's mouth, mostly "Fuck, fuck, that's…god that feels so good, Sam, Sam—"

Sam stroked deep and constant, swiveling his hips, trying to hit that sweet spot, and when he did, Dean gasped in pleasure. 

"God damn it—what the fuck—" He wrapped his legs around Sam's hips, occasionally kicking him in the ass harder than Sam thought necessary to get him to move faster—no surprise that even half-out of his mind with pleasure, Dean was a dick. Sam ground in like he could get deeper, gasping and growling into Dean's neck, trapping Dean's dick between the both of them. Dean suddenly stiffened, barked out a sound of surprise, and came. 

In the instant before Sam's brain caught up with his body, Dean's come felt scalding hot against his skin. He was shocked—hadn't expected Dean to come like that, and neither had Dean apparently—he looked stunned as well. Sam's eyes slammed shut, his balls drew tight, he had a brief, confusing moment where he wasn't sure if what he was feeling was pleasure or pain—then he was flying, emptying into the tight, hot grip of Dean's body.

He hadn't blacked out, not exactly, but he'd definitely been elsewhere for a while. Hell, he couldn't speak, he was so wrung out, so _good,_ that it hurt to even think of making words. Instead, he latched onto Dean's throat, working his tongue against Dean's skin, sucking heat to the surface of his skin, licking and nipping helped ground Sam. Dean let him for long minutes, until after a particularly sharp nip, he punched Sam in the gut. "Get out," he grumbled, and Sam pulled out carefully, both of them hissing at the sensation. He waited a few seconds, just breathing into Dean's skin before easing onto his side, and throwing a leg over Dean's groin. The gummy cling made him grimace…and then smirk. Yeah, he made Dean come like a fountain…he chuckled softly and Dean grunted, apparently startled awake. Dean patted Sam's leg. "You okay?"

Sam nodded, still afraid to speak, worried that now the lust faded, Dean would second-guess this. Dean was quiet so long that Sam began to think he was right—but finally Dean said, "Since I've been back, I've wished for this; sometimes, I thought we should have had this a long time ago, but you know what? I think this is it now. The perfect time."

Dean went quiet again and Sam wondered if he was thinking about all those days he'd lived in that world that had been maybe a dream, maybe a side-slip into…an alternate universe…whatever it was. Dean was right, though. This was their time now. And it was the ideal time for them. They might both be graying, creaking a bit, but they were ready for this in a way they couldn't possibly have been before. 

Sam leaned down and kissed Dean. "Come morning, it's your turn to drive. You game?

"Shit Sam—you never did play fair," Dean pouted. "I'll never fall asleep now." 

But they did.

  
_And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack_  
And you may find yourself in another part of the world  
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile  
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful  
wife  
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here? 

Talking Heads, Letting the Days Go By


End file.
